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H.  acMiKw^-  »u\f;a''ii 


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S5 


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Pagination  is  os  follows;   [5]-402  p. 


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Ce  document  est  fllm^  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiqu4  ci-dessous. 


m 

lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

m 

J 

12x            16x           20x           24x           28x           32x 

C^^'Kif'TWa... 


'^iff-&-m''^^bitSiiaim 


Mutos^i^'^^m^KmiM&Mmtm,'. 


Th«  copy  tilm«d  h«f«  has  baan  raproducad  thank* 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

National  Library  oi  Caiwdd 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  rapreduit  graca  A  1« 
gAniroait*  da: 

Bibliothequa  nationals  du  Canada 


Tha  imagas  appaarmg  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
poMibIa  conaidanng  tha  condition  and  lagtbility 
of  tha  eriainal  copy  and  tn  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacif icationa. 


Laa  imagaa  suivantas  ont  tta  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  »oin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  naitat*  da  Taxamplaira  filma.  at  mn 
conformit*  avac  loa  cenditiena  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 


Original  copias  m  printad  papar  covara  ara  filmad 
ttayinning  with  tha  from  cowar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  pnniad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
lion,  or  tha  bach  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  film»d  bagmning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  priniad  or  iilustratad  impras- 
■lon.  and  andms  on  tha  laat  paua  with  a  printad 
or  Illuatratad  impraasion. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  -*•  Imaaning  ■'CON- 
TINUEO"!.  or  tha  symbol  V  Imaaning  "END  I. 
«vhiGhovar  appliaa. 

Maps   platas.  charts,  etc..  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  ineludad  in  ona  a*posura  ara  filmad 
.bagmning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  ast  imprimaa  sont  filmas  an  commancaot 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarmmant  soit  par  la 
darniAra  paga  qui  compona  una  ampramta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'illustration.  soit  (>»r  la  tacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Toua  las  autras  axampiairas 
originaux  sont  film*s  an  commanqant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  ampramta 
o'impraasion  ou  d'illustration  at  un  tarmmant  par 
la  darniAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
•mpraint*. 

Un  das  symbolas  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniAra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha,  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbola  — ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  I* 
symbola  V  signifia  "FIN". 

Las  canaa.  planchas.  tablaaux.  ate.  pauwant  atra 
fiimAs  A  daa  taux  da  rAduction  difftrants. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  att  trop  grand  pour  atra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clichA.  it  ast  filma  A  partir 
da  I'angia  supAriaur  gaucha.  da  gaucha  A  droita. 
at  da  haut  mn  bas.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  nOcassaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
llluatrant  la  mAthoda. 


y:'^!HS'mt9, 


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(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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THE  JTTIC  GUEST 


A    NOVEL 


By 
ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 

Author  of  "The  Web  of  Time;* 
"  St.    Cuthbert's,"  etc. 


Ntw  Tork        Chicago        Toronto 
Fleming  H.   Rev  ell   Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


2S9731 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto:  35  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  ai  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:      100   Princes    Street 


If  .uiiBt-  <v^-aui>rd,.  m -^.•MMar.i.i 


To 
My    Father 


POREfroRD 

Med  "The  Att.c  G„«t,"  would  probably 

It  w«  then  and  ,h,„  ,j  J^'  '°  f  «">■"  ">»»«. 
"ow  first  presented  to  tte  '  tl'*"""^  ^""P'-' 
my  hands.  The  hands  IXi^ZT'""^''  '° 
■"  my  own  were  those  of  a  ladvlr  T""'""' 
"<«iest,  cultured,  winsome    "nd^o  "■""■' 

her  without  feeling  thri.'  '  ""''' ''"°'' 

'eeiing  that  her  qualities  r,i  \...^ 

"en  greater  a,an  of  intellect     Sh!  ""' 

-f'.-  I  need  hardly  say   ad  tht  b  '"'"  "  """'""''' 

=:;ro:i:.r[f"x^^^^^^^ 
-pw.-;;"s^rtSTe:s:^r^" 
-x:r;:arr^--  r: 

schooling  of  a  lifeti"!  '"'  ""='  "«  "«™ 

sheasLthf:  rrdrr  "'"'>''"'• 
-«v--dshe."ifyi7i:;::r:--- 

Her  plea  for  asking  Ms  service  at  Z  .     . 
I'M  I  had  had  some  humM  ^     "*  "" 

""  humble  assccation  with  the 


10 


FOREH^ORD 


world  of  letters.  Mayhap  she  thought  this  pleased 
me  well— and  perhaps  it  did.  I  urged  her  to  send 
her  book  forth  with  her  own  name  upon  it— but  this 
she  firmly  refused.  She  shrank  from  the  publicity  if; 
would  involve,  she  said,  as  must  any  Southern  lady. 
I  believed  her  implicitly.  "  Especially,"  she  went 
on— dwelling  earnestly  on  this—"  since  my  book  is 
the  frank  and  artless  story  of  the  most  sacred  things 
of  life,  of  a  woman's  life  at  that.  Some  will  smile," 
said  she,  "and  some  deride,  and  many  disbelieve; 
but  the  story  is  the  story  of  my  inmost  work  and 
life  and  love.  Let  it  see  the  light  if  you  think  it 
worthy." 

I  promised;  and  thus  my  promise  is  redeemed  and 
riiy  humble  part  is  done. 

Robert  ii.  Knowles. 
Caif,  Ontario. 


Ts 


CONTENTS 


I. 
II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XI. 

xir. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

xxni. 

XXIV. 


The  Lioht  Fantastic 

Jl'ST  El(JHTtKN  . 

The  BRm(;E  That  Lay  Between 
Thi;  Danc;er  Zone    . 
An  Alternative 

•  •  • 

The  Gmnt  of  the  Heatheh       . 
"The  Glorv  ok  Their  Strength' 
Dealings  with  the  Sammritans  . 
Love's  Tutorship      . 

•  •  • 

The  River  Leading  to  the  Sea 

A  Mother  Confessor 

The  Wail  op  the  Lowly 

The  Lynching 

Girding  On  the  Armour  . 

"  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows  " 

A  Knightly  Guest  . 

•  •  • 

My  Ordination 

The  Dayspring  from  on  High   . 

The  Taint  of  Heresy 

Harold's  Sister— and  Another 

"  Love's  Old  Sweet  Song  " 

When  Joy  and  Sorrow  Meet 

"  The  Voice  of  Rachel  " 

"  Come,  Ettrick  ;  Yarrow,  Come  " 


«3 
*3 

36 

59 
74 
86 

99 
»'7 
»3' 
'44 
^53 
>7' 
190 

203 

214 

Z29 

2+1 

250 

262 

*^3 
299 

309 
321 


1 

CONTENTS 

XXV. 

A  Select  Congregation 

336 

XXVI. 

The  News  a  Broker  Brought 

34« 

XXVII. 

Where  Gus  Cast  Anchor 

■     35+ 

XXVIII. 

"  To  Old  Point  Comfort,  Dear  " . 

.     365 

XXIX. 

The  Hour  of  Healing   . 

.     382 

XXX. 

Eden  in  the  Attic 

.     398 

THE  ATTIC  GUEST 


THE  LIGHT  FANTASTIC 

THAT  room   in  the  third  story  ip  good 
enough  for  any  elder,"  my  mother  was 
saying  as  I  came  into  the  library;  "  more 
than  likely  they'll  send  us  a  country  elder  anyhow, 
and  he'll  n -ver  know  the  difference— he'll  think  it's 
the  spare  room,  I  reckon." 

I  was  only  eighteen  then,  and  I  didn't  care  much 
where  elders  slept,  or  whether  they  slept  at  all  or 
not.  Besides,  it  was  already  nine  o'clock,  and  I  was 
going  to  a  little  party  where  "  Tripping  the  light 
fantastic  "  was  to  be  the  order  of  the  evening.  By 
the  way,  I  only  found  out  the  other  day  that  Milton 
was  the  author  of  that  fantastic  toe  phrase-and 
the  news   startled   me  about  as   much   as  if  some 

one  had  told  me  Cromwell  invented  "  Blind  Man's 
Buff." 

"  Has  Dinah  got  me  buttoned  right  ? "  I  asked, 
backing  up  to  my  Aunt  Agnes.     Aunt  Agnes  was' 


«4 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


my  mother's  sister.  I  can  see  her  yet,  her  hands 
going  up  in  an  abstracted  kind  of  way  to  correct  one 
of  Dinah's  oversights ;  for  she  was  still  revolving  the 
great  question  of  the  elder  and  the  attic,  the  attic 
and  the  elder. 

"  You're  all  right  now,  honey,"  she  said  in  a  mo- 
ment, giving  me  a  gentle  push  away,  her  whole  mind 
reverting  to  the  subject  of  family  concern. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  went  on  in  the  same  breath,  "  it's 
going  to  be  an  elder  from  the  country.  Mr.  Furvell 
told  me  to  wait  after  prayer-meeting  last  night ;  and 
he  said  the  billeting  committee  sat  till  two  in  the 
morning  trying  to  divide  the  ministers  and  eldere  as 
fairly  as  they  could-an  1  he  thought  we  were  going 
to  get  an  elder  from  Pollocksville." 

"  Let  us  hear  what  Henry  thinks  about  it,"  my 
mother  suddenly  interrupted,  her  face  turned  towards 
the  door  as  she  spoke.  "  Sit  here,  Henrys."  as  she 
made  room  on  the  sofa  for  my  uncle  ;  -  sister  Agnes 
thinks  it  will  be  dreadful  to  send  our  delegate  to  the 
attic  ,f  he's  to  be  a  minister-but  she  doesn't  mind  a 
bit  if  he's  an  elder." 

My  uncle  smiled  as  he  took  his  place  beside  my 
mother.  And  the  face  that  was  turned  in  fondness 
upon  his  wife  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  had  a 
look  of  kindly  drollery.  For  uncle  was  the  tenderest 
of  men,  and  his  countenance  reflected  the  purity  and 


The 


LIGHT  FAhlTASTlC 


'5 


gentleness  of  liis  hearf      tt 
"U  school,  was  u„  r  H       ""  "  '™"^"'^"  "^  '"^ 
W".  '..^d  been   bot  i„?^"'':^'"'''«'"'"«f°« 
"alf  had  not  been  for  00^"     Ti  '  ""  '' 
li'^-  between  me  and  that  A      ,           """'  "'  ^=^'^ 
discussed  ,1,                            ''"'  "="'"S  "hen  we 
uscussed   the  approaching  Presbytery   that  was  L 
lionour  our  li>f-l^  f^        l  ^  '^ 

PonderinrV  ''  '°"''"'"e  'n  0"r  midst, 

pondermg  our  approaching  guests  as  .„l.      1 

though  they  had  been  envo>^  frl  T   ''  "^ 

but  I  can  still  see  the  tall  a^^^  ,        '  "'""'^  '°''"- 
with  aire    I,,  '""  ^"■'"'<=  f"™.  not  yet  bowed 

Cjt  "'  """  '"■'y-"""  the  careless, 

fitting,  becoming  clothes  that  wraooed  ,>  •       t 
blacli-  anj  »i  "Tapped  it  in  sober 

o:thrh:n:^o7e:rJrb::":,r^''-^''=" 

before  me  the  ,        "'^-^hove  all.  there  rises  clear 

.entienrb  d:!:::e  ;t'"'^"^"^*-'' 

-ose,  while  the  L  ''"  ""'""'  """aquiline 

=.  While  the  large  gray  eyes  looked  out  with  th, 

yZ  th  ""  '"''  '"  "'"■'^h  he  was  so  dear 

Vet  there  was  latent  fire  in  those  gentle  eves    w, 

bermg  furnaces  that  needed  only  to  be  bio   „    Z 
any  one  ramiliar  with  the  best  typ'e  of  So    hi  "e" 

gist  "'""'  ^°''"^='  *«  inborn  angef 

against  meanness,  the  swift  resentment  of  a  wrong 


,6  rHE   ATTIC   GUEST 

the  reverence  of  womanhood,  the  pride  of  family, 
that  were  such  saUent  features  of  the  old-time  pa- 
trician of  the  South. 

"  What's  your  say  on  the  subject,  Uncle  Henry  ?  " 
my  mother  asked  again,  breaking  the  silence.  For 
my  uncle's  gaze  had  wandered  from  his  wife's  face 
and  was  now  fixed  upon  the  fire.  It  was  April,  as  I 
have  said,  but  a  generous]  flame  was  leaping  on  the 
hearth.  So  generous,  indeed,  that  the  back  window 
whose  tiny  panes  looked  towards  the  west  was  open  ; 
this  is  a  form  of  conHicting  luxuries  which  only 
Southern  folks  indulge  in. 

"  I  just  think  the  other  way  round,"  Uncle  Henry 
finally  responded ;  "  different  from  Agnes,  I  mean," 
his  eyes  smiling  as  they  met  his  wife's.     "  I'd  send 
him  to  the  attic  if  he's  a  preacher ;  a  minister  wouldn't 
be  so  apt  to  misunderstand,  because  they're  trained 
to  sleep  anywhere  at  a  moment's  notice— and  they 
know  what  it  is  to  have  to  stow  their  own  company 
away  in  every  nook  and  corner.     Besides,  it's  those 
same  preachers  that  make  heaps  o'  folk  sleep  sitting 
right  bolt  up  in  church.     But  an  elder,"  Uncle  1  lenry 
went  on  reflectively,"  an  elder  kind  o'  wants  to  make 
the  most  of  it  when  he's  visitin'— it's  more  of  an 
event  to  him,  you  see ;  they  look  on  going  to  Pres- 
bytpry  as  a  kind  of  rehearsal  for  going  to  heaven." 
"  Then  they  ought  to  be  glad  to  get  the  highest 


7he   LIGHT  FANTASTIC  17 

place."  broke  in  my  Aunt  Agnes  triumphantly,  for 
she  had  a  ready  wit. 

••  Depends  on  how  you  get  there,"  retorted  Uncle 
Henry  after  a  very  brief  but  very  busy  pause ;  he  had 
no  mind  to  be  worsted  in  an  argument  if  he  could 
help  it.  "  Everythmg  depends  on  how  it's  given  to 
you.  There's  aU  the  difference  in  the  world  between 
being  lifted  and  being  hoisted—I  saw  a  fellow  tossed 
by  a  bull  one  day  out  at  Cap'n  Lyon's  farm ;  he  got 
the  highest  place,  aU  right,  but  he  didn't  seem  to 
relish  the  promotion." 

My  mother,  who  was  accustomed  to  act  as  umpire 
in  these  little  contests,  turned  a  humorous  eye  towards 
Aunt  Agnes.    The  latter,  we  all  knew,  was  fumbling 
frantically  for  some  response  which  seer^d  to  elude 
her;  my  mother's  pose  reminded  me  a  little  of  the 
man  who  had  held  the  watch  the  week  before,  down 
at  Jacksonville,  when  two  gentlemen  of  the  ring  had 
paid  their  respects  to  each  other.     I  knew  all  about 
how  they're  counted  out  if  they  don't  show  up  within 
a  certain  time ;  yet  it  isn't  likely  I'd  have  known  any. 
thing  about  it  if  Mr.  Furvell  hadn't  warned  us  from 
the  pulpit  that  we  mustn't  read  the  account  of  the 
affair—he  said  the  details  were  shocking.    So  I  had 
to  wait  till  Aunt  Agnes  was  finished  with  the  paper. 
I  really  do  not  know  how  the  argument  concluded, 
for  at  this  juncture  a  very  sable  face  appeared  sud- 


l8 


THE    ATTIC   GUEST 


denly  at  the  door  and  a  liquid  voice  announced  • 
"  Please,  Miss  Helen,  Misteh  Slocums  vvaitin'  fo' 
yeh  in  de  parluh." 

I  was  .eady  for  the  intimation,  for  I  had  heard  the 
old  brass  knocker  muttering  a  minute  or  two  before- 
and  I  was  just  at  the  age  when  I  knew  the  different 
knocks  of  different  gallants.     And  not  a  few  of  these 
latter  were  wont   to  l.ft  that  frowning  brass  face  on 
our  front  door  and  let  it  fall  again-the  wonderful 
thmg  about  it  was,  that  the  oftener  they  came  the 
more  gentle  grew  the  knock-but  this  is  the  way 
with  all  knockers  at  all  Southern  homes  that  shelter 
comely  maidens.     And  I  am  neither  modest  enough 
nor  untruthful  enough  to  deny  that  I  deserved  the 
adjective    aforesai '-especially    as   this   story   may 
never  s..  the  light  till  my  eyes  give  it  back  no  more. 
"  I'm  hoping  he'll  be  a  minister."  I  volunteered,  as 
I  turned  a  moment  at  the  door. 
"  Why  ?  "  cried  my  mother. 
"  What  for?  "  chimed  my  Aunt  Agnes. 
"  Weil,"     I   answered,  ■•  elders  pray  too  long— I 
went  to  sleep  one  night  at  worship  when  that  elder 
from  Hickory  was  here  at  the  Synod.    And  he  said 
I  was  a  devout  worshipper,  don't  you  mind,  when  I 
kept  kneeling  after  you  all  got  up.     I  don't  think 
that   was  very  nice  for  a  religious  man  to  say."  1 
averred,  tugging  at  a  reluctant  glove. 


\M 


mMMmm^s^^}::M>^ 


The   LIGHT  FANTASTIC  ,9 

"He  wouldn't  think  soifhesa.w. 

you  ,00k  mighty  --e,ho„ey_.houghIdo„,K 

i'eve  youVe  got  enough  on  L  ,    km 

this.    Be  sure  vo„  1,=,  '"^  "'Sh'  '*= 

youTecoI;ho:e.~"'^'"^-"''^™"'.e,. 

••Mr    Slocun,  will  «e  to  that,"  assured   UnCe 

•  Hu'st  •  T     "  '■"'"""•■•"«  "''  -^*- 

Hush,    «'d  my  mother  chidingly.,  the  .hu 

doesn't  know  „hat  you  mean."    Ever^ '     1    ft,  ' 

evening's  conversation  is  vivid  tol    7  " 

might   be-  ,„H   r  t  'o  me  yet,  as  it  well 

m^h ..  hdd  :ih  a?  ''"  "°"''"=<'  ""y  -y 

plicity.  '  ''"^"'"'    ^'^   of  -ny  sin.. 

J  don't    remember    much   ahnnf    fi, 
frivolities  of  that  April  evening     i     !•  '""""'"^ 

It  served  loner  v^rc  ^r        i  wore— 

ian,p  Shade  rrtrlwlToT-  "='■""-"  ^  ^ 
I    danced    nearly  eC:!     '""  ■^■""""■* 

-bererdayscha^teninll  X;!    l^'lT^  °' 
-  about  the  elder  ^L.iottoTderiin    'ir 

M.i';if  ^-r--"-d.^Buthr 

frank  Slocum  bade  me  good-night  as  I  d;«„ 
peared  Within  the  heavy  oaken  door'of  ^y  „  J;,' 
We,  he  unwittingly  recalled  the  subject. 


ao 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


X'-. 


"You're  expecting  a  \isitor  to-morrow,  aien't 
you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  suddenly  remembering. 
"  Yes,  we're  going  to  have  one  of  the  men  attending 
tiie  Presbytery ;  I  think  it's  to  be  an  elder— and  I'm 
afraid  it's  him  for  the  attic,"  I  concluded.  It  was 
half-past  two  and  I  was  too  tired  to  bother  about 
grammar. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  about  the  Presbytery,"  re- 
turned  Mr.  Slccum.  and  he  smiled  in  the  moonlight. 
"  Somebody  else  is  coming,  isn't  he  ?  " 

Whereat  I  hope  I  blushed ;  it  was  the  time  for  that 
mystic  operation.  For  I  knew  he  referred  to 
Charlie,  dear  old  Charlie,  who  made  his  pious  pil- 
grimage once  a  month— and  I  was  the  shrine. 

"Yes,  he's  coming,"  I  said,  toying  with  the 
knocker  as  I  spoke. 

•'  You  don't  seem  as  jubilant  about  it  as  you  ought 
to  'je,"  ventured  Mr.  Frank. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  feel,"  said  I ;  "  maybe  I'm 
jubilant  inside," 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  sigh,"  pureued  my  escort. 

"I  didn't  know  I  sighed— but,  even  if  I  did. 
perhaps  sighs  are  like  dreams,  and  go  by  contraries,"' 
I  returned,  making  the  best  stand  I  could.  "A 
maiden's  heart  is  an  unknown  sea,"  I  affirmed,  quot 
mg  from  some  distant  poem. 


The   LIGHT   FANTASTIC  2\ 

•'Besides/'  Frank  went  on.  disdainful  of  all  poetry 
"  .f  you  really  cared  like  you  ought  to.  you  wo.  -dn^' 
be  out  so  late  the  night  before ;  you'd  be  having  your 
beauty  sleep  right  now.  just  to  be  lovely  when  he 
came^or.  at  least,  to  be  ev.n  lovelier."  he  amended  ; 
for  Frank  was  a  Southern  gentleman. 

"  I  never  had  it  bad  enough  to  go  to  bed  over  it " 
I  admitted  ;  .«  but  he'll  be  here  to-morrow-he'll  be 
here  I  .-morrow."  I  chanted,  as  ecstatically  as  I  could. 
Yet  I  felt  at  the  time  that  the  words  didn't  ring 
much;  it  was  a  little  like  trying  to  peal  a  chime  on 
a  row  of  pillows.     Then,  before  I  knew  it,  I  yawned, 
yawned  brazenly  into  the  face  of  the  brass  knocker 
on  the  door. 

"Exactly!"  said  Frank,  his  hand  moving  to  his 
hat.^  "thats  just  about  the  size  of  it-Miss  Helen 
youre    a    little    idiot."  and  his  honest  eyes  shone' 
bright  w.th  their  candour  of  affection. 

"Sir!"  said  I.  employing  a  splendid  intonation. 
And  gave  a  little  stamp  on  the  stone  step  beneath 
me_all  true  Southern  girls  love  to  stamp.  -  Sir »  " 
I  repeated.  "  you  forget  yourself." 

"But  I  don't  forget  ^^«."  Frank  retorted  swiftly 
his  face  quivering  a  little ;  »  though  I  wish  I  could,  a 
i'ttle  more.  And  I  know  you  don't  care  anything 
about  h.m.  the  way  he  thinks  you  do-or  the  way  he 
wants  you  to.     And  God  help  him-and  you  too- 


23 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


If  something  doesn't  happen  ;  you  have  cither  gone 
too  far,  or  not  far  enough,  Miss  Helen,"  he  declared 
boldly,  looking  straight  into  my  eyes  in  the  moon- 
light.    And  I  couldn't  help  gazing  back,  for  his  look 
and  his  words  b(  a  had  a  kind  of  fascination  for  me ; 
I  reckon  I  knew  they  both  were  true.     So  I  didn't 
get  angry-only  a  lot  of  things,  all  connected  with 
the  past,  rushed  like  a  flood  before  me.     But  I  will 
tell  them  all  in  another  chapter.     I  had  no  mind  to 
discuss  them  with  Frank  just  then. 

So  I  simply  said  "Good-night,  I'm  going  in." 
And  Frank  said  good-night  with  great  respect  and 
turned  to  go  away.  I  peeped  through  the  crack  just 
before  I  closed  the  door,  and  I  could  see  that  his  eyes 
were  on  the  pavement  and  his  step  was  slow.  Yet  I 
cared  nothing  for  that,  f  <cept  as  it  boded  what  might 
be  of  interest  to  myself. 


1 


'i«Sl     M-    -T..     - 


.«"^ 


n 

JUST  EIGHTEEN 

AS  I  sit  and  look  back  on  it  all  now.  I  feel  al- 
-3t  sure  that  a  girrs  reallife  beg.^  3, 

bor  i.  .T^'''  ''°"^  ^'^'^^-"  y-«  of  a'r  A 

tionatfouror^rL^^^,^^^^^^^^^ 

contempt,  and  that  itself  i,  "^*''"'  ^'^^ 

takes  on  th.        r  P'^omotion.     Then  he 

takes  on  the  uniform  of  manhood,  gloryinjr  in  tZ 
frank  two-Ieggedness  of  his  kind  •  anH 
sense  this  marks  fh.  k  '         '"  "^^'^^  ^  ''^^l 

deed  .  h     \  ^^'""'"^  °^  ^'^  "manhood.     In- 

deed,  a  boy  has  mile-posts  all  along  the  way     Tol 
boots  come  next  anH  fh^  c   .      .  ^"    ^°P 

-ith  U,eir  r^dl't  r        "•''°*'"'''""'" 
<fo.r.    This  pal„  of ;  '  ^""  "'"  '  ^^  ^P'™' 

b.  ^  th.  .,  "'■  "'  ''°==  ^"  other  glory- 

"^ .  the  day  reappears  in  divers  form,      H-        , 

roken  of  manly  stren^tli      TJ,«„  ,  . 

of  ball  r.    u-^  ^'^engtii.     Then  comes  his  first  game 
of  ball,  or  h.s  first  venture  with  tools  •  or  he  if  o 
day  permitted  to  hold  a  slnmK    •       i  "^ 

"Old  a  slumbering  butcher-horse 

2i 


24 


THE   ^TTIC   GUtST 


while  iU  master  steps  within  ;  in  return,  he  is  allowed 
to  drive  a  block  or  two—trifling  enough.  ai>  some  one 
smiles  and  says,  but  every  boy  remembers  it  and  it 
marks  a  new  stage  of  power.     About  this  time  he 
learns  to  swim ;  all  the  past  is  forgotten,  the  future 
all   despised,  till     e   becomes    amphibious.    Then 
comes  his  first  watch-time  is  annihilated  in  the  tu- 
mult of    Sat  hour ;  then  a  gun  of  his  own-its  firet 
report  is  i.card  around  the  world.     And  so  it  goes 
on,  ever  onward,  from  one  lock  to  another  in  life's 
long  waterway.     By  and  by  the  stream  widens  far; 
he  must  choose  his  profession— then  his  partner- 
then  someone,  and  the  romance  seems  never  at  an  end. 
But  a  girl's  life  has  no  such  variety;  skirts  are  her 
abiding  portion,  from  swaddling  clothes  to  shroud. 
And  her  curls,  undisturbed,  thicken  with  the  years. 
No  top  boots  f.>r  her,  nor  game  of  ball,  nor  wizardry 
of  tools ;  for  her  nothing  but  the  long  drab  way  of 
tl.rlhood.  beginning  with  the  nursery  and  ending  with 
the  same. 

Till  she  is  about  eighteen.  Then  comes,  or  almost 
alwa>s  comes,  the  first  waterfall  in  the  stream  of  time. 
And  what  a  wild  cataract  t  is,  leaping  with  the  tidal 
movement  of  her  soul !  And  how  mystically  deep 
that  spring  of  love  which  is  its  far-off  source  !  A.  d 
how  the  light  of  heaven  plays  upon  it  all ! 

I  was  ju3t  eighteen  when  this  first  came  to  me. 


/V% 


mmmm 


■y^l^i 


'.mi^^mtr^' 


JU<:t  eighteen  ,, 

And  all  my  cightce,,  year,  before  seem  now,  a,  I  re- 

-  .hem,  „ke  a  placid  afternoon  .,0,,,.  sli,;  by  :„. 
ncced  ,„  the  sun^cr-timc ;  .he  clock  ..rike!  .h. 
Hour,  I  suppose,  but  no  one  hears  it. 

I  was  born  in  187-.     No  «tom-.i,  .■■ 
..„t  .     .HI  '^"  """••"i  I  i  ever  quite  con- 

tent to  tell  the  vcrv  vepr  h..-  .1,    ^       j     . 

n«l  er.     And  ,ny  mother  has  often  told  me  what  a 
lovely  October  day  It  was-my  dawn  wa3  mile 

abloom'    T""^  '"""■^•"'  ""'  ""  "O"-  ««-  ^M" 
abloom  m  the  garden,  and  some  darky  children  were 

paymg  .„  .^e  dusty  road  before  the  door,  and  the 
-.autumn  sky  was  „„„  wreathed  in  smiles,  now 
bath  d  ,  .ears,  fitting  symbol  of  the  checkered  life 
that  lay  before  me. 

My  father  died  when  I  was  two  and  a  half.     My 

het  r     f '""  °''"""  '^  '"  ™P-"™  "f  his  great 
1.-st  and  strength  as  he  once  bore  me  on  his 

„:  t:"'': .'.''''' •"'''''''' ^^-^-*^- 'he 

St    tal  foT  "^  '"°"'"  '^"'  "=  '  °«- 

bac^  u.th  my  arms  about  his  neck-but  there  lingers 
wth  me  the  memory  of  only  o:,e  such  pilgrimage. 
Vet    t  ,s  d,.,mct  and  vivid,  I  am   thankful  to  say 
and  I  can  see  ye,  ,he  low  brick  fence,  with  its  cope' 
Of  slone,  all  vine-entangled  as  it  was;  and  to  this  day 
I  never  catch  the  breath  of  the  magnolia  without  see! 
.ng  aga,„  the  full-bloomed  beauty  that  stood  close  to 


26 


THE   /ITTIC   GUEST 


the  steps  within  the  wall.  I  think  I  plucked  a  spray 
as  I  was  borne  past  it  that  evening  on  my  father's 
shoulder. 

Both  my  mother  and  my  aunt  thought  it  strange 
that  I  have  no  recollection  of  my  father  as  he  lay  in 
the  calm  majesty  of  death  ;  for  my  mother  took  me 
with  her  alone  into  the  parlour  and  shut  the  door 
upon  us  three  when  she  took  her  last  fareuell_so  she 
has  often  told  me.  her  voice  breaking  as  she  spoke. 
And  she  says  I  wanted  to  linger  after  she  turned  to 
go.  gazing  steadfastly  upon  the  silent  face,  fascinated 
by  the  master  mystery  of  life  ;  it  seems,  too.  that  even 
in   her  grief  she  noticed  my  disdain  of  the  lovely 
flowers  that  ensconced  the  coffin,  though  I  had  the 
child's  passion  for  those  gratuities  of  God,  so  all-ab- 
sorbing was  the  witchery  of  death.     And  I  have 
been  told,  though  none  of  my  kinsfolk  ever  mentioned 
It-  he  old  undertaker  told  me  himself  one  day  when 
I  was  playing  among  the  shavings  in  his  shop-how 
pitifully  hard  I  fought  when  they  began  to  shovel  in 
the   clay  after  my  father  had  been   lowered  to  his 
grave.     It  is   one  of  our  Southern  customs  for  the 
ladies,  veiled  past  recognition,  to  follow  their  dead  to 
the  uttermost ;  and  it  was  in  the  cemetery  I  dropped 
my  mother's  hand  and  began  my  unavailing  struggle 
to   rescue    my   father  from  suffocation  and  eternal 
night.     I  was  borne  away,  probably  easily  beguiled. 


JUST  EIGHTEEN 

ay 

and  my  father  was  left  to  his  Inn^  i       i- 
r««,      u  °"S  loneliness.     But  I 

member  nothing  of  e,„er  of  these  incdents,  grej 
nd  t  ag,cal  as  I  thought  them,  and  s.,U  think  the" 

^7  wthout  a  sense  of  selfish  cruelty-there  seen, 

-h  oceans  of  Gods  fresh  air  everywhere,  y    den," 

hose  ,ve  leave  behind.    And  I  have  neve   b    n 

«  nets    1:T  '"■"  "■=  ''^■■"  °f  ""'  "■■"-  '-'P- 

can  do  for  our  nearest  and  dearest  is  to  leave  them  all 
alone  beneath  the  darkening  sky 
Those  who  knew  her  best  say  that  my  mother  wa. 

e.  i;or'  jr  ''""•     ''^  "■'='^"^''°'^'  "  ''-P"""- 
e    ,   or  ,nd  flerence  to  life  came  to  mark  the  change 

J>ently  by  some  influence  from  afar 

u^:::°iT''''''' '-  °™ '--  '»"■"«  ■•>  - 

the  We'  "°  "*""=  f^'^onfte  pillow  in 

p    I  '  T""  ■'P-^''--"'ey  gave  dances  in  tho 

pa  lo.r  and  no  recumbent  form  disturbed  the  revel   ■ 

rJ":""   '"''   "'"'y  L-dy,  my  Uncle  Henr  ' 
To  ,he,r  home  we  went  to  live,  I. n  unconscious  „• 


28 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


my  mother  in  hope  of  heahng.  There  my  life  was 
spent  till  I  was  eighteen  years  of  age— and  later  ;  but 
my  story  begins  with  that  particular  year,  which,  as 
I  have  hinted,  is  to  so  many  a  maiden's  life  hke  the 
month  of  April  to  the  Northern  river— for  then  the 
ice  breaks  up  and  the  stream  moves  outward  ro  the 
sea. 

I  was  eighteen  when  I  fell  in  love.  That  is,  if  I 
fell  at  all— concerning  which  I  have  my  doubts.  For 
many  a  girl  thinks  she  has  fallen  in  love  when  all  the 
time  she  walked  \n. 

Ah  me !  those  days  are  far  past  now ;  but  the 
words  I  have  just  written  gave  my  pen  a  good  half 
hour's  rest  while  I  mused  on  all  the  meaning  of  them. 
For  after  a  girl  becomes  a  mother,  after  she  has  chil- 
dren of  her  own— which  is  about  the  same  thing- 
she  is  far  more  fastidious  about  love,  and  far  more 
solicitous  that  it  should  be  genuine,  than  when  she 
was  choosing  for  herself.  And  she  knows  then,  what 
she  knew  not  at  eighteen,  that  the  difference  between 
falling  in  love  and  walking  into  it,  is  just  the  differ- 
ence between  Heaven  r  ,d— Hades.  (What  a  con- 
venient word  ••  Hades  "  is  !  It  was  made,  I  reckon, 
expressly  for  woman's  use.) 

Well,  I  am  afraid  I  walked  in,  the  first  time  I  got 
in  love.  Yet  I  feel  it  is  a  sort  of  blasphemy  to  say 
the  first  time— for  no  true  girl  is  ever  really  in  love 


JUST  EIGHTEEN  ^ 

but  once;  born,  loved,  died, thus  stand  the  mountain 
peaks  of  hfe,  and  each  can  rise  but  once.     So  I  must 
amend  by  saying  that  the  first  time  I  tried  to  be  in 
love,  and  everybody  else  thought  I  really  was.  I  got 
there  by  the  pedestrian  route.     1  rather  think  I  hon- 
estly wanted  to  be  in  love,  had  almost  resolved  to  be  • 
and  when  a  girl's  face  is  once  set  in  that  direction 
she  Will  see  land  ahead,  though  half  an  ocean  lie  be- 
tween_or.  to  chang     the  figure,  she  is  like  those 
sWly  chanticleers  that  crow  at  midnight,  thinking  it 
the  dawi  ^ 

One  other  thing,  too.  I  must  tell  in  my  defense. 
I  was  pusAea  in.     A  dearer  and  more  devoted  mother 
than  mme  no  girl  ever  had.     But  this  I  will  dare  to 
say-and  I  am  old  enough  to  know-I  do  believe 
every  true  mother-heart  has.  somewhere  in  its  great 
expanse,  a  cav,ty  that  aches,  never  to  be  filled  till 
some  one  who  loves  her  daughter  comes  to  dwell 
there  evermore,  bone  of  her  bone  and  flesh  of  her 
flesh  by  the  great  adoption    of  their   united  love 
Two  streams,  both  difTerent^but  the  confluence  is 
m.ghty.     And  then  there  is  another  cavity,  farther 
•n.  Its  ache  more  poignant  still-and  that  place  is 
never  filled,  that  pain  never  banished,  till  she  scans 
some  baby  face,  her  leaping  heart  descry^ing  the  like- 
ness to  her  own,  all  the  lovelier  because  the  image  of 
the  adopted  mingles  with  it. 


v>i« 


I'l: 


30 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


I  am  right  well  aware  how  horrified  my  mother 
would  have  been  if  any  one  had  dared  to  hint  that 
she,  or  any  other  gentlewoman,  cherished  the  hope 
of  some  day  being  either  mother-in-law  or  grand- 
mother—or both ;  and  I  cannot  help  a  little  shudder 
as  I  write  those  terms  myself.  But  the  truth  as  I 
first  set  it  down,  free  from  those  rude  bald  words,  is 
not  to  be  denied. 

It  was  at  the  seaside  that  I  first  met  Charlie  Gid- 
dens.  Mother  and  I  met  him  the  same  evening,  in 
the  midst  of  a  merry  dance  on  the  grand  piazza.  He 
was  tall  and  dark,  and  his  hair  was  gloriously  re- 
bellious, every  way  for  Sunday.  We  both  noticed 
that  he  looked  at  us  a  little  long,  a  little  earnestly,  I 
thought— but  he  asked  mother  to  dance  first,  and 
that's  where  his  head  was  level. 

"  Don't  fill  your  program  all  up,  Helen,"  she  whis- 
pered as  she  handed  me  her  fan,  gliding  out  with 
the  tall  figure,  so  handsome  in  his  spotless  ducks. 

"  Did  you  notice  how  gracefully  he  handed  me  to 
my  seat  ?  "  mother  said  after  he  had  left  her ;  "  he  has 
the  manners  of  a  cavalier."  For  the  old-time  South- 
ern lady  puts  gracefulness  next  to  grace. 

"  He  dances  like  a  Dervish  of  the  Desert,"  I 
remarked,  a  little  maliciously  perhaps— for  he  had 
bowed  and  left  us. 

"  Like     a     courtier,     you     mean,"    my     mother 


^  ■  K?Aacf  rw-' 


JVS7  EIGHTEEN  ,, 

amended,  her  eyes  still  following  him.  "And  his 
fathers  a  ship  „.v„er  in  Savannah,  and  his  mother 
comes  from  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  South  Car- 
ohna,    concluded  my  mother,  naming  ,he  ancient 

"  That's  why  you  like  his  dancing,"  I  suggested  ; 
■old  fam,l.es  all  dance  exquisitdy-the  older,  the 
spnghtlier,  it  seems." 

"  He  has  such  a  delicate  wa>  of  putting  things." 
pui^ued  ^  mother;  .<  he  was  describing  his  mother 
to  me,  and  he  said  she  had  a  lovely  figure,  just  about 
my  sue.  surveying  somewhat  hopefully  her  rather 
substantial  form  the  while.  For  this  was  a  ven.  live 
issue  with  my  mother;  she  lived  in  daily  horror  of 
growmg  stout,  and  any  such  reassuring  word  was 
balm  of  Gilead  to  her. 

But  what's  the  use  of  going  on  with  this  ?  This 
story  s  mam  concern  is  not  with  mv  dancing  days 
and  what  I  have  written,  or  yet  shall  wri^  L 
gardmg  them,  is  only  a  streamlet  leading  towards  the 
nver  of  my  life.  And  my  story-if  it  be  ever  fin- 
ished, or  however  far  it  roam,  must  follow  the  wind- 
ing current  of  my  changeful  years. 

Yet  this  I  must  record,  that  Mr.  Giddens  came 
back  that  night  and  stood  once  again  benea  h  the 
swmging  lanterns  that  cast  their  fitful  light  on 
mother's  face  and  mine.     An.'  ^e  asked  for  another 


^Tsmsmtn 


}2  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

dance — but  it  was  not  from  mother.  And  whenever 
we  swirled  before  her  as  we  compassed  the  great 
piazza,  I  could  see  how  mother's  eyes  followed  us  ap. 
provingly,  more  approving  than  I  had  ever  known 
them  to  be  before. 

And  thus  it  all  began — all  that  never  should  have 
been  begun  at  all.  That  is  what  I  meant  when  I 
said,  a  little  farther  back,  that  I  was  pushed  into  love 
— and  by  my  own  dear  mother.  Oh,  it  all  seems  so 
terrible,  so  cruel  to  me  now,  looking  back  over  all 
the  happy  years,  beautiful  in  the  uncreated  light  of 
love — it  is  really  awful  to  reflect  how  often  the  hands 
that  love  her  most  are  the  fateful  hands  to  many  a 
girlish  life,  pushing  the  poor  protesting  heart,  so 
gently,  yet  so  relentlessly,  pressing  it  on,  on  to  the 
dark  abyss  of  a  lovt  jss  union.  Mr.  Giddens  was  of 
gentle  birth,  I  know;  he  was  handsome,  cultured, 
charming, — and  he  was  very  rich.  All  these  shed 
their  light  about  him,  and  my  mother  gloried  in  their 
radiance.  Theii  light,  I  said — but  it  was  artificial. 
The  summer  sun  of  love  had  never  shined  on  me  at 
all ;  so  that  while  I  could  not  but  feel  the  effulgence 
of  it  all,  yet  only  one  room  of  my  life  was  lighted, 
and  that  the  hallway — the  vast  world  within  was  still 
wrapt  in  darkness.  I  knew  all  the  time  that  I  did 
not  really  love  Mr.  Giddens.  Yet  I  could  not  see 
why  I  should  not — and  there  the  great  peril  lay.     It 


JUS7   EIGHTEEN  y^ 

was  that  fatal  path  that  milled  .e.     All  the  outward 
s.gn-posts    pointed  my  way  as  leading  f         7 
own     hl.^  M,«        •      ^       y  ^  leading  towards  his 
own     but  these  s,gn-posts  were  marked  by  human 

out  their  message,  i'^-'^ug 

-  TLeres  „„.  ,  gi,,  ,„  Virginia."  she  .aid  one  day 
i-"t  would  give  her  l,ead  for  him.     He's  ari^tocra^ 
and  handsome,  and  rich."  "sracratic, 

"And  the  greatest  of  these  is  rich,"  qnolh  I. 
For  shame ! "  cried  my  patrician  mother. ..  that's 

the  least  of  it." 

"Not  at  all,"  I  retorted.    ■■  For  if  a  girl  doesn't 
love  a  man  as  fiercely  as " 

;;  As  what  .."exclaimed  my  mother,  shocked. 
As  devotedly  as  she  should."  I  revised    ••  she 

sheVa 'rd""","™'""  -"  "'  -'-^  •"-  •"— 

re  It  mat.:;-';  """  ''"  ''^-'^-''"'  "'^  cash  is  a 
hands  on;:::;,  :igt™"--'-ou.d  get  her  little 

^J^Helen.  you're  a  foolish  child."  said  my  mother 

"That's  what  I  often  think  myself."  said  I  more 
gravely  still.  '     °'' 

Well,  that  ,vas  the  way  it  went  on.    I  told  him 
y«     onemght.    I  do  not  believe  he  heard  me 
but  he  seemed  to  know  I  yielded,  for  he  did  what  he 
had  never  done  before-nor  ever  other  mant^  de 


I 


34  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

And  thus  life's  greatest,  holiest  moment  was  stained 
to  me ;  and  the  sacred  altar  was  lighted  with  far  dif- 
ferent fire  than  that  for  which  God  meant  it.  I  had 
never  been  kissed  before— at  least  not  that  way— and 
even  then  I  felt  how  I  was  cheated  of  my  birthright, 
and  I  marvelled  at  the  sense  of  shame.  But  that  can 
never  be  recalled,  so  I  try  not  to  dwell  upon  it.  Nor 
can  it  be  amended,  and  the  loss  is  to  eternity.  I 
have  known  the  rapture  since  then,  the  primal  bliss — 
but  the  virgin  joy  was  tempered  with  the  cruel 
thought  that  it  had  all  been  rehearsed  before.  And 
the  bitterest  feature  of  it  all  is  this,  that  it  had  never 
been,  except  for  her  who  loved  me  with  a  mother's 
love.  But  her  ambition  mingled  with  her  love— and 
these  two  are  enemies. 

If  I  had  been  a  little  more  in  love,  I  reckon  mother 
would  not  have  tried  so  hard  to  urge  me  on.  But  I 
was  not— I  was  a  little  less.  And  mother  kept  kneel- 
ing beside  the  poor  little  flame  on  the  mean  altar  of 
my  heart,  to  quote  the  old  h}-mn,  and  she  kept  the 
bellows  going  pretty  steadily,  if  haply  she  might, 
make  the  fire  burn.  Or  if  I  had  been  a  little  less  in 
love,  perhaps  she  would  have  given  over — for  I  was 
dear  to  her.  But  I  was  not ;  I  admitted  he  was  rich, 
and  handsome,  and  superior— and  these  seemed  quite 
enough  reason  to  a  girl's  mother  why  there  should 
be  true  affection.     Su  I  was  neither  a  little  more,  nor 


JUST  EIGHTEEN  35 

yet  a  litUe  less,  in  love  with  Charlie-and  that  is 
Hades,  to  use  the  convenient  word  again,  when  it 
has  to  do  duty  for  the  real  thing.  But  mother  kept 
on  encouraging  me,  saying  she  knew  I'd  be  very 
happy,  and  drawing  lovely  pictures  of  the  position 
I  would  occupy  and  the  leadership  in  society  that 
would  be  mine;  and  mothers  can  make  ashes  look 
like  bread-only  they  don't  have  to  eat  them  through 
the  hungry  years. 


Ill 


THE  BRIDGE   7 H AT  LA  Y  BETW EEN 


D 


O  you  think  we're  a  star  chamber  ? "  I  said 
to  my  mother,  as  she  stood  at  the  parlour 
door  with  a  cushion  under  either  arm. 

"  Tlunk  you're  what  ?  Think  who's  what  ?  "  she 
queried  in  amazement. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  those  cushions  to  ? "  I 
pursued,  glancing  at  her  burden. 

"  To  the  up-stairs  sitting-room.  You  know  uncle 
always  takes  a  nap  before  he  goes  to  bed,"  Which 
was  true  enough ;  uncle  fancied  he  didn't  sleep  well 
if  he  neglected  this  preliminary  canter  on  the  sofa. 
That  was  where  he  was  wont  to  try  divers  notes  till 
he  struck  the  proper  key  for  the  night's  performance. 

"  That's  where  you  all  are  going  to  stay  this  even- 
ing," I  averred.  "  Uncle  will  snooze  there  while  you 
and  aunty  play  cribbage." 

"  Yes,  of  course — why  ? "  answered  my  mother 
wonderingly.  ««  You  and  Mr,  Giddens  will  be  in  the 
parlour,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  meant  about  the  star  chamber,"  I 
rejoined,    "  I  think  it's  right  foolish,  the  way  you  all 


7he  BRIDGE  That  LA  Y  DETU^EEN  y-j 
take  to  your  heels  when  Charhc  spends  an  evening 
here.     Tl»cres  a  plenty  of  room  in  the  parlour  for  us 

"  There  .houldn't  be."  my  mother  made  reply  •  "  I 
never  saw  the  room  big  enough  for  more  than'two 
when  your  father  and  I  were  lovers^which  we  were 
the  longest  day  he  lived."  she  added,  her  voice  coft- 
emng  to  the  romantic  note. 

"  And  did  you  always  want  to  be  alone?  "  I  asked 
senously;  .-always  alone  together-before  you  were 
married,  I  mean  ?  " 

My  mother  smiled,  her  eyes  half  closing  in  remi- 
niscent thought.    ..  Yes.  child."  she  answered  slowly 
"alone^together;   I   beHeve  those  two  words  de- 
scribe  nearly  all   the  Joy  of  life-alone-together 
Don  t  you  know  what  I  mean.  Helen  ?  "  and  there 
was  a  deep  tenderness  in  her  voice  as  she  dropped 
one  of  the  cushions  on  a  chair,  coming  dose  and 
takmg  me  in  her  arms  ;  "  doesn't  my  dear  one  know 
the  meaning  of  it  ?     Oh.  Helen.  I  want  you  to  be  so 
happy.     And  you  will  be.  won't  you-you  are.  aren't 
you.  my  darling  ?    You  love  him,  don't  you,  Helen  ?  » 
My  face  was  hidden  in  her  bosom.     After  a  min- 
ute's Silence  she  drew  back,  that  she  might  look  into 
my  eyes.^    "  You  love  him,  don't  you,  dear  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  again  seeking  the  shelter  of  her 
breast. 


38 


THE   A  7  TIC   GUEST 


"  I'm  so  glad,  my  darling,"  she  murmured.  Then 
she  picked  up  the  fallen  cushion  and  went  on  her 
way  up-stairs. 

I   stood   by  the  piano,   listlessly  fingering  some 
music  sheets  that  lay  on  top  of  it.     Suddenly  the 
stillness  was  ^roken  by  my  mother's  voice. 
"  Helen,"  she  cried ;  «'  oh,  Helen." 
"  Yes,  dear,"  I  answered,  stepping  to  the  door. 
••  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  news ;  our  Presbytery 
guest  isn't   coming  till   to-morrow.     They  sent  us 
word  just  this  afternoon— and  they're  almost  sure  it's 
going  to  be  an  elder." 

"Then  'it'  will  have  to  go  in  the  attic,"  I  re- 
joined, shouting  the  opprobrious  pronoun  up  the  stairs. 
"Helen,  dear,"  the    tender  voice    remonstrated, 
"how  can  you  speak  like   that— caHing  him  'it.' 
That  isn't  respectful,  child." 

"It's  your  word,"  responded  I;  you  said  it's 
going  to  be  an  elder." 

"  But  I  didn't  actually  call  him  it,"  my  mother 
defended.  Her  answer  was  rather  long  in  coming  ; 
I  could  tell  she  was  struggling  with  the  verbal 
problem. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  beg  his  pardon,"  I  conceded ;  "  any- 
how he  won't  care  what  we  called  him,  when  he 
strikes  the  attic,"  and  the  argument  ended  in  a  duet 
of  laughter. 


The  BRIDGE  That  LA  Y  BETH^EEN       39 

"  And.  Hcien."  resumed  my  motl.cr.  by  this  time 
one  or  two  steps  dowa-sta,rs.  -  dont  >ou  think  you'd 
better  dress?  Mr.  Giddens  .ught  to  be  here  right 
soon  now.  shouldn't  he  ?  I  thmk  you  ought  to  wear 
your  pmk  organdy_he  says  he  loves  you  in  pink, 
you  know."  *^ 

"  He  ought  to  love  me  in  buckskin,"  I  flung  back 
"  If  he  loves  me  at  all.  He  ought  to  love  me  for  my' 
own  sweet  self  .adecorated-you  see,  mother,  how 
romantic  you're  making  me.  If  he's  really  got  the 
frenzy  he  won't  need  any  pink  things  to  infuriate 
him.  I  msisted,  laying  Spanish  bull-fights  under 
tribute. 

"  Please  yourself,  child,"  my  mother  responded  as 
she  disappeared.  "  but  I  know,  when  your  .^ather  was 
courting  me " 

"  You  ought  to  write  a  book  on  the  subject 
mother."  I  interrupted  gaily;  ••  you've  evidently  had 
It  down  to  a  science.  If  you'd  write  a  book  and  call 
•t  •  First  Principles  of  Courtship '  or  •  Love-making  for 
Begmners '  you'd  help  things  on  a  lot."  But  by  this 
time  mother  was  beyond  the  range  of  conversation 
and  my  hterary  counsel  met  with  no  response 

I  went  back  to  the  parlour.  The  music  sheets  were 
fumbled  once  again.  Then  I  tried  to  read,  but  found 
«  impossible  to  settle  down.  I  turned  once  more  to 
the  piano  and  presently  found  myself  softly  singing 


*^M^^%l^'Jt 


40 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


a  little  love-verse,  familiar  since  my  childhood.     I 
crooned  it  once  or  twice : 


Still  must  you  call  me  tender  names 

Still  gently  stroke  my  tresses ; 
Still  shall  my  happy  answering  heart 

Keep  time  to  your  caresses. 

The  words  made  me  lonely — hke  a  phantom  song. 
I  involuntarily  smiled  a  little  as  I  caught  myself  sigh- 
ing while  the  piano  notes  died  away ;  perhaps  it  was 
the  gathering  twilight  that  gave  me  such  a  plaintive 
feeling  in  the  region  of  my  heart. 

Suddenly  a  voice  came  from  above.  It  was  Aunt 
Agnes  this  time. 

"  Hear  that,  Helen  ? "  she  sang  out.  «'  There's 
music  in  that  screech,  isn't  there  ?  " 

"  What  screech  ?  "  I  answered  back,  a  little  suspi- 
cious that  she  referred  to  my  simple  warblings.  Yet 
I  knew  she  could  scarcely  have  heard. 

"  The  locomotive,"  she  promptly  replied.  "  Didn't 
you  hear  that  engine  whistle  ?— that's  his  train,  you 
know.     I  reckon  you  were  listening  for  it  all  right." 

I  rose  and  moved  to  the  window,  grimly  wonder- 
ing if  ever  lover  had  so  many  assistants  in  the  busi- 
ness. I  could  see  the  white  puffs  of  smoke  as  the 
train  steamed  slowly  into  the  distant  station.  The 
dreamy  ringing  of  the  bell   floated  in  through   the 


mi 


r  «f:i^.«:': 


7he  BRIDGE  That  LAY  BETlVEEN       4, 

open  window,  mingling  with  the  pens:N v  .,=  .ds  of 
evening. 

And  I  was  lonely,  so  lonely !     I  k.  .u  that  Cliar.ie 
had  just  alighted  from  the  train,  doubtless  nu.r  ing 
even  now  to  his  hotel.     He  would  soon  shake  its^ust 
from    off  his    feet,  I    knew,   and   old  -  Rastus  "- 
Rastus  knew  Charhe's  orbit  and  kept  a  keen  lookout 
for  hnn-would  bring  him  with  fitting  haste  to  me 
My  cheek  reddened,  then  paled,  as  1  seem,  d  to  see 
Charhes  eager  face,  his  impatient  arms,  his  ardent 
I'PS.     I  quivered  a  little,  and  tore  two  or  three  of  the 
petals  from  a  rose  I  had  chosen  from  a  bowlful  on 
the  table;  the  harmless  things  floated  to  the  pave- 
ment beneath  the  window. 

Suddenly  a  bird's  rich  full  note  fluttered  in  and  fell 
upon  my  ear.     I  listened.     And  his  mate  responded 
-ful  and  sweet  and  tremulous  the  answer  came. 
The  love-throb  pulsed  vibrant  through  it.     I  thought 
it  beautiful;  and  I  listened,  enchanted,  as  the  tender 
message  came  again  and  again.     Soon  the  note  grew 
famter-and  I  think  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  tlie  winged 
overs  as  they  ghded  close  together  into  their  bridal 
chamber  in   the   deep  shade  of  the  magnoha  tree. 
The  nch  blossoms  hung  like  curtains,  quivering  a 
httle  where  the  mated  pair  had  passed  within-that 
fragrant  retreat  was  holy. 
Still    gazing,  my  attention  was  diverted  by  the 


-^  ..Ji-iw-^ 


•^.-i^  .:,*••' 


42 


THE   ATriC    GUEST 


sound  of  feet  upon  the  brick  pavement  that  went  past 
our  house.  I  listened,  watching.  And  a  minute  or 
two  later,  all  unconscious  of  my  presence,  a  ycuth 
and  maiden  passed  beneath  the  window.  Neither 
was  speaking,  and  their  steps  were  slow,  as  if  they 
cared  not  where  they  led.  Somehow  they  com- 
pelled my  interest  at  once.  I  knew  them  both, 
though  their  station  was  quite  different  ♦  om  mine. 

She  collected  belated  accounts  for  a  local  laundry 

he  drove  their  horse,  delivering  from  door  to  door. 
I  watched  them  wistfully  as  they  passed  oi.,  by  and 
by  leaning  out  the  window  to  follow  their  career. 
They  turned  to  the  left  and  made  their  way  out  on  to 
the  bridge.  And  I  saw  him  once — though  the  dusk 
was  deepening— I  saw  him  take  her  hand ,  she  with- 
drew it  quickly,  but  he  gently  recovered  it  a  mo- 
ment later,  this  time  without  resistance.  And  thus 
they  went  on  together,  far  out  on  tlie  lonely 
bridge,  every  step  taking  them  farther  from  every- 
body else,  but  nearer  to  each  other.  The  twilight 
hid  them  soon ;  and  they  were  alone  together  in  the 
shelter  of  the  gathering  dark. 

Then  was  a  wild  tumult  surrjing  in  my  heart.     I 
wondered  what  made  it,  and  why  the  lump  rose  so 
persistently  in  my  throat,   even   while  I  feared  to 
know.     For  she  was  onlv  a  workincr  "'iri.  I  thou'^h' 
and  he  a  swain  who  drove  a  beast  of  burden.     Yet  I 


The  BRIDGE  TM  LA  >  BETU'EEN       „ 

knew  tha,  that  „,d  bridge,  rickety  and  worn,  lay  be- 

t^een  „,.  and  .he  Celestial.    And  I  wondered  who  t 

as  that  wrote  tha.  songabout  the  tender  namerand 

the  ;resses  so  gently  to  be  stroked 

I  went  back  towards  the  piano ;  for  I  heard  the  dis- 
tant  sound  of  wheek     Ti,.„  r  ,  ""neais- 

„>„'     J.  "'^-    Then  I  rang  the  bell;  a  servant 

appeared  m  an  instant. 

;;Lydd<  I  said,  .Might  the  gas,  please." 

to  th?f'        /""•     '  '""^  "'"  »  '"-feh  <iriWV 
^o^the_fwontdoah,.Miss  „.,.„,  33  she  re.„rne..  with 

"  I  heard  it  too,"  said  I. 


'"**« . 


IV 

THE   DANGER  ZONE 

THE  stealthy  dawn  was  just  laying  its  gray 
hand  on  the  slowly  waking  wond  as  I  crept 
the  next  morning  into  my  mother's  room, 
I  was  shivering  a  little,  for  our  April  mornings  are 
often  far  from  warm.  Besides,  I  was  excited— and 
the  night  had  b-en  passed  in  sleeplessness. 

"  Is  that  you,  child  ?  "  my  mother  asked,  starting 

suddenly. 

"  Yes,  are  you  asleep  ?  " 

"  What's  the  mr.tter  ?     Are  you  sick  ?  " 

«  No,"  I  answered,  creeping  in ;  "  but  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.     I'm  frightened." 

"What  frightened  you?"  and  my  mother's  tone 
was  louder — "  anybody  trying  to  break  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  nothing  like  that,"  as  I  cuddled  closer. 
"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you— Mr.  Giddens  frightened 

me." 

My  mother  was  all  awake.  "  Mr.  Giddens,  child," 
she  exclaimed,  rising  a  little  on  the  bed  ;  "  how  on 
earth  could  he  frighten  you?  Tell  me  how,"  the 
note  in  her  voice  more  imperative  now. 

44 


The    DANGER    ZONE  45 

I  was  silent  a  moment,  not  knowing  just  how  to 
begm.     Perhaps  I  felt  a  little  ridiculous  too 

•;  Tell  me.  Helen,"  my  mother  said  presently  and 
quite  firmly;  "  I'm  waiting."  P  ^^^""y>  and 

"  Well,"  I  began  hesitatingly ;  u  ^^n,  ifg  ^^^__ 
he  wants  me  to  get  married  " 

clrrr  T'  ^:'"*''"^=""'*-'"'«'>e<i• 
c  otles.     Then  .he  partly  rn.e  on  her  elbow.    Then 

:;:„  r      '■"  ''"'°"-  "-=">'  ^y-^  '■-  -eaC  back 
h-.e"h?d  """t"'"  ^'"■'*' °"*'  -'"'"  voice. 

Ran.  n,  you  re  a  silly  little  goose-co„,ing  in  here 
emb  ,„g,  and   waKing  n,e  up  and  scaring  „e  half 
to  death,  only  to  tell  me  that  the  man  youVe  en- 
gaged to  wants  to  marry  you." 

••  But  mother,"  I  began  earnestly,  ••  ifs  ,!ifferent_ 
you  don  t  understand." 

"Nonsense,  child,"  she  interrupted,  ..there  isn't 
'^lythmg  to  understand.  What  do  folks  get  en- 
gaged for,  What  does  any  lover  want,  except  ,o 
CO    marned,    And   this  is  the    great  fright  you 

BO. ;  ,t  seems  that  y„„  got  engaged  to  a  man,  and 
he.,  .,e  alarms  you  by  suggesting  you  get  married! 
.ets  go  to  sleep,"  and  my  mother  patted  the  pillow 

n  th  her  cheek  preparing  to  resume  the  operation  I 

had  interrupted. 


M^mm-^iiSMmmai^^mM^^i^ 


TlJ.r:. 


46  THE   ATTIC    GUEST 

"  But  I  won't  go  to  sleep,"  persisted  I.  "  You 
don't  understand — Mr.  Giddens  wants  to  marry  me 
right  off — right  away  soon."  My  mother  turned 
her  head  a  Httle  oa  the  pillow.  She  was  wakening 
fast. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  "  she  said. 

I  knew  she  had  heard  me  quite  well,  but  I  re- 
peated it  willingly  enough.  "  I  say  he  wants  to 
get  married — very  soon.  His  family  is  going  to 
Europe  jhortly — and  it  se'^ms  his  father  says  we  can 
spend  the  first  part  of  our  honeymoon  on  the  Sea- 
Nymph,  and  then  join  them  all  in  Europe  later 
on.  And  so  Charlie  has  quite  made  up  his  mind 
that " 

"  What's  the  Sea-Nymph  ? "  interrupted  my 
mother  eagerly. 

"  It's  the  name  of  the  yacht — a  new  yacht  they've 
got." 

"  A  yacht  ?  A  private  yacht  ?  "  breathlessly 
asked  my  mother. 

"  Yes,  a  private  yacht,"  I  answered,  not  much 
elated  about  it  either. 

"  I  knew  a  family  in  Norfolk  once  that  had  a 
private  yacht,"  my  mother  reflected,  just  a  little 
reverently.  "  And  all  those  rich  New  York  people 
keep  yachts  at  Newport,"  she  added  in  a  kindred 
tone. 


i 


The   DANGER   ZONE  47 

"That   doesn't    matter    much,"    I    said,  a   tnfle 
acridly;    '<  half  of  the  people  on  them  seem  to  be 
divorced,    if    you    can    believe    the    papers.     But 
Charhes  quite  set  on  this  plan  of  his_of  theirs-and 
I  m  distressed   to  death  about  it.     i  don't  want  to 
just  go  right  away  30  soon,"  and  my  voice  shook 
in  sp.te  of  myself  as  I  nesUed  a  little  closer  to  my 
mother. 

"  What  did  you  tell  him,  Helen  ?  "  she  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

"  I  said  no— at  first." 

"  And  what  after  ?  " 

"  Nothing— that's  the  worst  of  it " 

"Why?    Why  the  worst  of  ii?"  pursued  my 
mother.  ' 

"Because  he  thinks  I  will-and  it  frightens  me." 
"  Helen, '  and  mother's  voice  was  quite  reproach- 
ful, "  I  can't  make  you   out  at  all.  child.     You've 
promised   to   marry  him-and   I    can't   understand 
you.     Why,  when  your  father  wanted  me  to  marry 
h.m  I  couldn't  get  too  early  a  day-and  we  didn't 
nave  any  yacht  either." 
"  No,  but  you  had  father,"  I  interposed. 
"That's     foolish."     said    my    mother.     And    I 
thought  it  was  myself,  although  I  fel;  my  rejoinder 
had  a  meaning  I  couldn't  Just  explain. 
We  talked  till  the  sun  was  pouring  i„  through  the 


^•,.  -v  ii\. 


ii^-^^*]^...*:  J 


r 


48 


7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


i 


ea.stern  window ;  yet  we  determined  little  else  than 
this — that  mother  thought  I  should  and  I  was  almost 
sure  I  couldn't. 

I  think  we  all  felt  better  in  the  morning.  Mother 
and  I  certainly  did  ;  even  Europe  and  a  yacht  didn't 
impress  me  so  formidably  as  in  the  ghostly  dawn. 
We  had  shad  for  breakfast,  fresh  from  its  briny 
home  ;  and  if  shad  be  skillfully  cooked  it  can  colour 
all  the  succeeding  day.  Wherefore,  when  we  were 
all  gathered  on  the  porch  in  the  glorious  sunshine 
motlitr  immediately  became  communicative.  She 
had  previously  advised  me  that  it  would  be  better  to 
say  nothing  to  Uncle  Henry  or  Aunt  Agnes  about 
the  subject  that  engrossed  us  both  ;  this  of  itself  was 
almost  a  guarantee  to  me  that  mother  would  tell  it 
all,  for  she  generally  took  this  means  of  reserving 
that  luxury  to  herself.  So  it  wasn't  very  long  till 
she  had  told  them  all  about  it.  Before  3he  was 
through,  the  j  rivate  yacht  had  grown  to  dimensions 
of  a  man-of-war  fitted  up  in  oriental  splendour — and 
I  had  been  all  but  presented  to  half  the  crowned 
heads  in  Europe. 

"  And  I've  been  telling  Helen  how  foolish  she  is," 
she  concluded  earnestly,  looking  to  my  aunt  and 
uncle  for  confirmation  of  her  view.  "  It  isn't  every 
girl  gets  a  chance  of  a  honeymoon  on  a  yacht,  is  it, 
Henrj'  ?  "  nodding  towards  me  over  her  shoulder. 


The    DANCER   ZONE  ^ 

But  „„cle  didn't  s«m  OS  agitated  a.  he  should 
ha  e  been     "  Oh,  I  d,„.',  ,„„„,,.■  ^e  replied  drawl 
meiy,  '• ..  depends  on  your  position  on  the  yaeh,      I 
suppose  there',,  be  women  aboard,  cooks  and  sueh 
Iil<e.  that  nobody'd  envy  very  „,ueh." 

••  I'osition !  •■  my  mot,,er  ejaculate.)  vigorously  • ..  I 
.hou,d  think  the  wife  of  the  owner  would  have  posi' 
non  enough  for  anybody." 
••  Yes_if  she  owns  /«„;■  replied  my  uncle  slowly 
"Owns  what?"  echoed  my  mother.    "What  do 
you  mean,  Henry  >" 

■■  I  mean  if  she  owns  to,,,"  repeated  uncle  cheer- 
fully ;■.,  she  loves  him  enough,  you  know-and  if 
he  does  the  same.  Sooner  be  on  an  old  raft_if  they 
really  ^^    ,,,h  „,,„ „  „^^,^  ^^^^^  ^^  Y 

than  the  finest  ship  in  the  world-if  they  don't  " 

all  nght  for  a  beg,„„ing_but  there  are  other  things 
b-des^  I  think  love  needs  a  good  soh.  foundation 
ly  :„'l™'   "  ^'^  ""'"''''  '"""-"'-"^  --* 

•■  Yachts  aren't  very  solid  things,"  retorted  the  lat- 
ter calmly ;  •.  and  Europe's  a  long  piece  away.  And 
■  n,y  views  on  love  aren't  what  they  ought  to  be, 
blame  Agnes  there,"  as  he  looked  in  unevasive  ten- 

derness  towards  his  wife. 
I  caught  the  look  she  cast  back  at  him ;  it  made 


.T***^'- 


.wXi'  _-. 


50 


7HE  ATTIC   GUEST 


R\ 


fV- 


me  think  of  the  lonely  bridge.  I  glanced,  too,  at 
the  bloom-laden  magnoha-and  the  thought  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  an  old  raft,  as  uncle  said, 
might  be  made  heavenly  enough. 

..  When  is  Mr.  Giddens  going  to  call  again?"  my 
mother  suddenly  enquired.  "  I  heard  him  say  he 
was  going  home  on  Monday." 

..  He's  coming  now,"  Aunt  Agnes  announced  in  a 
low  voice  •  -ondcr,  look— he's  just  coming  past  the 
Hickey's  boat-house,"  her  keen  eye  studying  the 
distant  figure.  "And  who's  that  with  him?"  she 
exclaimed  a  moment  later;  "  why.  it's  Mr.  Furvell, 
sure  as  the  world.  1  reckon  he  oming  here  too- 
some  news  about  the  elder,  likely  enough.  ^^  1  didn't 
know  he  and  Mr.  Giddens  were  acquainted." 

"  Neither  they  are,"  said  my  mother.  "  I  reckon 
they  just  happened  in  with  each  other." 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  the  dominie's  shadowin' 
him,"  uncle  ventured  gravely ;  "  lookin'  for  a  job, 
you  see— this'll  be  worth  two  hundred  to  him  at  the 
least,  won't    it,  Helen?"  a-    he  looked  quizzingly 

at  me. 

'<  At  the  very  least,"  I  answered  ;  "  I'm  pretty  ex- 
pensive-as  well  as  dear,"  which  little  playfulness 
seemed  to  tickle  uncle  immensely.  He  was  proceed- 
ing to  expound  the  humour  to  the  others  when 
mother  interrupted. 


^^_-A0  fl.lii. 


The    DANGER   ZONE 


5» 

And 


"  Run  to  the  door  and  meet  them,  Helen, 
bring  then,  right  out  to  the  porch." 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  I  demurred-"  I'm  shy."  But 
the  knocker  had  already  sounded  and  Lyddic  had 
already  started  for  the  door.  Uncle  Henry  immedi- 
ately  arose  and  made  his  way  to  meet  our  friends. 
A  minute  later  we  were  all  mingled  in  a  kind  of 
hand-shaking  reel  on  the  piazza. 

"  Mr.  Giddens  and  I  met  at  the  wharf,"  explained 
Mr.  Furvell ;  "  we  were  both  taking  a  look  at  our 
noble  river_ifs  superb  in  the  morning  sunshine.  So 
we  walked  up  together." 

"  Most  happy  to  see  you  both.  I'm  sure,"  said  my 
Aunt  Agnes  cordially. 

"  ^"'^^'  appropriate,  I  think,  that  we  should  hunt 
m  couples,"  contmued  Mr.  Furvell,  a  significant 
twmkle  in  the  min.  's  eye ;  "  we're  here  in  differ- 
ent  capacities-yet  they  naturally  go  together  "  he 
enlarged,  evidently  desiring  to  be  questioned. 

Everybody    waited.     "Miss    Helen    will    under- 
stand," he  then  went  on  facetiously  ;"  you  see,  I'm 
here  as  a  preacher,  and  Mr.  Giddens  as  a  worshipper  " 
wherewith,  much  pleased  at  the  success  of  his  little 
jest,  Mr.  Furvell  led  the  chorus  of  applause  himself. 

"  Well,  if  you're  as  earnest  about  your  part  as  I 
am  in  mine,  we've  both  found  our  proper  callings^ 
rejoined  Mr.  Giddens,  making  a  courtly  bow. 


^'h-^ 


^^  c 


^2  THE   AiriC    GUEST 

"  Let's  take  up  the  collection,"  said  I.  blushing 
furioubly,  and  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"  That  11  come  later,"  interjected  m>  uncle,  wink- 
ing reverently  at  the  pastor.  The  pastor  seemed  to 
understand  right  well  and  took  it  nothing  amiss. 

My  mother's  gaze  was  directed  in  undisguised  ad- 
miration ui)on  Charlie.  And  very  handsome  he 
looked,  I  must  admit,  his  face  a  little  flushed  by  the 
satisfaction  of  his  happy  speech,  his  eyes  bright  and 
tender,  his  whole  frame  lithe  and  strong  with  abun- 
dant health.  Then,  besides,  he  had  lovely  clothes, 
even  though  he  was  disfigured  by  two  or  three  blaz- 
ing diamonds,  two  in  his  shirt-front,  if  I  remember 
right,  and  one  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand. 
But  I  shouldn't  complain;  for  I  had  one  brilliant  beauty 
on  my  own  hand— and  he  was  its  devoted  source. 

I  think  Charlie  muit  have  noticed  my  mother's 
steadfast  gaze.  In  any  case  her  question  came  very 
suddenly,  as  if  to  relieve  embarrassment :  "  I  hope 
your  folks  are  all  well  at  home,  Mr.  Giddens." 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  replied  promptly  ; 
"  they're  bu.y  preparing  for  a  long  trip  to  Europe— 
they  sail  next  month." 

V/hereat  my  mother  quite  involuntarily  threw  a 
swift  glance  at  me.  And  I  believe,  I'm  almost  sure, 
that  Charlie's  eyes  followed  hers. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Giddens."  I  broke  in,  my  burning  cheeks 


..A  __Z   .^- 


'  nr'l 


'■'"■    'i^fJGER    ZONE  ,j 

"""""»  "'^'  "  "-  '"«!'  .in.c, ..  you  don't  know 
wllos  cun.ina  to  be  our  guest  to->l,v     ,    • 

"  What  on  eartli's  that  ?  ■■  said  Cl.arlic,  twirling  an 
ebony  cane  about  with  his  Hngers, 
•■  Oh   I  forgot,  you're  not  "a  Presbyterian      Ifs  a 

-n.Ieiuc.Ua,ed...a.indofanunorIineUn,inter 
llg,!''"'"'^'"''">'''-*'-'-''-Mcry. 

••Are    they    very   solemn?"   Charlie    enquired- 

«-y  sound  .o,enn,.     ,  suppose  he's  about  th     ale' 

thing   as   ,ve   call   a   warden  ■'   for   n     ."■^"" 

Episcopalian.  '     '"  '^'"'■'"■-  "''^  ^" 

••  A  notch  higher/'  ventured  Mr.  Furveli  '■  thev'r, 
."Tor  life.  Ifa-cyanelder'smorehkea  'ho  ,:: 
anything  you've  go.  in  your  church." 

••  And  he's  going  on  the  br.dge  deck."  I  added 
P°.nt„,g  upward  through  the  porch  roof 

■■  Helen    raeans    the   attic,"    e,ola„,ed   n,y   Aunt 
Agnes;  ..and  it  does  .eem  too  bad_but  we  ca"  ' 
"?'',:">-" -a  everything  ups.de  down.'       ' 

-4;  .7:;::7:;''"\°''''^---.edas. 

church  „  "■-^"™™^h,  when  we  have  those 

church  pow-wows,   half  the   householders    have  to 

=leep  ,„  the  bath.     I.  .his  bishop  f,o„.  .he  c„„ntl  ° 

.h''p  m"",'''  "°"  '■""™=''  M-Fu'vell.    '.."l 'think 
the  Pollocksville  elder  is  .o  be  your  n,a„." 


54 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


"  You'll  have  no  end  of  fun  with  him,"  Charlie 
predicted.  "  Those  old  Rubes  are  great.  I  hope 
you've  got  your  bootjack  handy,  Mr.  Lundy,"  ad- 
dressing my  uncle  ;  "  the  old  chap  will  need  it  sure." 

"  I'm  not  reckonin'  on  much  fun  with  him,"  Uncle 
Henry  answered  dryly  ;  "  that's  not  our  custom  with 
our  guests.  And  I  haven't  got  the  instrument  you 
mention — but  I'll  pull  his  boots  off  myself,  if  he  wants 
any  help." 

There  was  just  the  slightest  flush  on  uncle's  cheek  ; 
hospitality  was  a  sacred  thing  to  him. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  broke  in  Mr.  Furvell,  willing 
enough  to  turn  the  talk  into  another  channel,  "  I've 
just  had  word  that  we're  going  to  have  an  out- 
sider at  the  Presbytery.  Dr.  Paine  notified  me  to- 
day that  he's  bringing  an  intimate  friend  that's  visit- 
ing him  for  a  while.  I  rather  think  he's  from  Edin- 
burgh— but  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  In  any  case,  he's 
a  cleric — and  on'e  of  our  own  kind.  A  young  man,  I 
rather  think;  he  wants  to  see  something  of  our 
Southern  life.  Dr.  Paine's  letter  said." 

"Where's  he  going  to  stay?"  Aunt  Agnes  en- 
quired briskly.  My  aunt  kept  the  census  of  hosts 
and  visitors  for  half  the  town. 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  was  going  to  speak 
about,"  replied  the  minister.  "  You  see,  we'll  have 
to  get  a  place  extra  for  him — unless  he  can  be  billeted 


.1 


■«?«»  !■  _.  r-a^ 


The.    DANGER   ZONE  55 

along  with  Dr.  Paine,  which  I  think  rather  unhkcly. 
And,  if  you  all  prefer  it,  I  could  send  the  elder  some- 
where else,  and  give  you  the  foreigner— just  as  you 
hke,  though." 

"  Whatever  you  think  best,"  said  Aunt  Agnes, 
drawing  her  chair  a  little  closer.  Such  problems' 
were  the  luxuries  of  life  to  her. 

I  know  not  what  impulse  prompted  me,  but  I  re- 
call, as  though  it  all  happened  yesterday,  the  quick 
way  I  spoke  up  and  said  :  "  I  believe  we'll  take  the 
Scotchman— I  vote  for  the  clergy." 

"You  can't,"  said  my  mother  archly  smiling. 
"  You're  not  attentive  enough  to  them  when  we  have 
them  here— your  preference  runs  too  distinctly  along 
other  Hnes." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  I.  «  Any- 
how, I'm  for  the  clergy  this  time;  I  reckon  it's  the 
Scotch  flavour  that  catches  me_and  then  perhaps  he 
knew  Carlyle,"  for  this  latter  had  been  long  a 
favourite  of  mine  and  I  had  enjoyed  many  a  good 
thrill-and  many  a  good  snooze— over  his  books. 

Mother  smiled.  "  That's  a  little  conceit  of  my 
daughter's,"  she  said  apologetically  to  our  visitors  ; 
"  she  thinks  she'll  write  a  book  herself  some  day."' 
Ah  me !  how  little  she  knew  then  that  my  only  book 
would  be  the  story  of  my  life,  or  so  much  of  it  as  is 
worth  the  telling.     And  as  I  write  the  words  I  wonder 


BW^V:;-'  ■•■»■*"  HH-m-fTMOamt' ..  '    :I»^M8riTW 


■•ffl. 


56  THE   ArriC   GUEST 

if  any  one  will  ever  really  read  them — in  a  real 
book. 

"  No,  I  fear  he  never  saw  Carlyle,"  informed  Mr. 
Furvell ;  "  he's  too  young,  I  fancy.  At  least,  that's 
the  impression  I  got." 

"Is  he  married?"  Charlie  suddenly  broke  in, 
holding  the  ebony  cane  out  before  him  as  if  in  deadly 
earnest. 

"  No,  he's  not — I'm  quite  sure  of  that  part,"  the 
minister  answered  promptly  ;  "  for  Dr.  Paine  said  I 
mustn't  have  him  stay  where  he'd  be  liable  to  catch 
any  affection  of  the  heart." 

"  Then  don't  send  him  here,"  cried  Charlie  Gid- 
dens,  "  for  this  is  the  danger  zone."  And  everybody 
laughed  but  me. 

"  But  really,  speaking  seriously,  what  do  j'ou  think 
we'd  better  do  about  it?"  pressed  my  Aunt  Agnes, 
rising  to  adjust  an  awning  that  had  got  awry.  Mental 
intensity  with  some  women  always  runs  to  domestic 
observation.  "  I'd  hate  to  put  an  Edinburgh  minister 
in  the  attic,"  she  continued  thoughtfully. 

"  The  attic  hasn't  anytliing  to  do  wilh  it,"  pro- 
nounced Uncle  Henry,  silent  hitherto.  "  But  I  say — 
I  say,"  as  he  looked  around  the  companj-,  "  it's  go- 
ing to  be  the  elder.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that 
— I  took  a  notion  to  this  PoUocksville  cider  as  soon 
as  I  heard  of  him.     So  we'll  consider  that  settled, 


Z^.  V.  rST'lBW. 


The   DANGER   ZONE  57 

Mr.  Furvell.  if  you  please.  I've  got  a  queer  kind  of 
a  not.on  he's  going  to  do  us  all  good.  When  does 
his  train  arrive,  sir  ?  " 

"  This  evening  at  five."  said  Mr.  Furvell.    « I'll 
have  him  driven  up  to  the  house." 

"  Thank  you,  I'll  meet  the  train  myself."  said  my 
uncle. 

"  But,  Henry,"  his  wife  expostulated,  "I  made  an 
engagement  for  you  for  that  very  hour-Judge  Bur- 
ton and  his  wife  are  coming  to  call." 

••  Can't  help  it."  said  my  uncle  firmly;  "not  when 
there  s  a  guest  to  be  met.  I'll  have  to  leave  them  to 
the  ladies,"  from  which  resolve  my  aunt  knew  well 
no  argument  could  turn  him. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  before  our  little  com- 
pany broke  up  when  Mr.  Furvell  rose  to  go.  Charlie 
took  advantage  of  the  confusion  to  suggest  that  we 
two  should  retire  to  the  parlour.  -  And  you'll  sing 
for  me,"  he  said. 

Half-way  along  the  hall  he  remarked  merrily 
"  Now's  your  chance  to  begin  your  book,  dear.  Put 
your  elder  in  it_and  make  the  Edinburgh  parson 
d.e  of  a  broken  heart-and  put  me  somewhere  in  the 
introduction." 

"  Maybe  I  will,"  I  answered  a  little  defiantly.   "  You 
think  I  can't  write,  don't  you  ?  " 
"  You  could  do  anything  you  like  with  anything- 


58 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


or  anybody,"  he  answered  gallantly;  "  but  don't  begin 
your  literary  work  till  we  come  back  from  Europe," 
and  his  voice  was  all  thrilling  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes 
ardent  as  they  turned  on  me.  And  his  hand  went 
out  and  rested  lovingly  on  mine  as  I  turned  the 
music  over — for  we  were  now  at  the  piano — and  I 
wondered  why  it  was  that  I  didn't  lean  forward  like 
he  did  with  eager  outstretched  arms.  But  I  didn't. 
Yet  he  kissed  me — then  I  said  I  was  going  to  sing, 
as  he  had  asked  me,  so  it  was  all  over  in  a  minute. 

"  Sing  that  about  the  tresses,"  he  whispered,  bend- 
ing over  me.  So  I  did  as  he  bade  me.  And  the 
words  came  softly : 

'  StiJl  anust  you  call  me  tender  names, 
Still  gently  stroke  my  tresses." 

But  somehow  I  kept  thinking  about  the  elder  that 
was  so  soon  to  come.  I  know  not  why — it  was 
through  no  will  of  mine — but  the  elder  would  take 
shape  before  me  as  about  five-and-twenty  years  of 
age ;  and  he  was  fair ;  and  his  accent  was  like  to  that 
of  the  Scotch  Carlyle;  and  he  had  a  low-crowned 
hat  of  felt — and  a  coat  of  clerical  design. 


mmsSi^.M'msmMia^^-  .-'■^isiie'.^;-' j"'*^^ 


SOME  things  never  happen  more  than  once. 
And  these  one  never  can  forget. 
I  remember  exactly  what  I  wore  that  even- 
ing; what  it  was.  is  of  no  consequence  to  any  one 
but  me.     I  have  a  fe.  fragments  of  it  yet,  tatters 
mostly-but  their  colour  never  seems  to  fade 

And  I  can  recall  the  errand  that  took  me  forth 
It  was  to  get  some  cream ;  for  what  we  had  didn't 
know  when  it  was  whipped.  Such  was  the  simple 
m.ss.on  on  which  I  started  out.  and  I  had  a  little 
pitcher  in  my  hand;  even  then  the  days  were  almost 

hCea^rr^'^"^^^"^--^'^^-^'---^- 

I  hadn't  gone  very  far  when  I  saw  Uncle  Henry 
commg  towards  me.  He  was  evidently  homeward 
bound,  returning  from  the  train.  And  there  was 
somebody  with  him ;  I  could  see  a  taV  form,  clothed 
-  black,  beside  him-and  uncle,  tc  my  surprise, 
was  carrying  a  valise. 

I  don't  know  why  it  was.  but  instantly  my  pace 
slackened    till    I    stood    almost  still     And   once   I 

59 


^m^^>m^' 


6o 


rHE   A77IC   GUEST 


turned  and  looked  back  towards  the  house ;  I  think 
I  held  the  pitcher  out  in  front  of  me  as  if  I  were 
pointing  with  it.  I  really  beheve  I  was  contempla- 
ting a  retreat,  but  just  then  uncle  sang  out  something 
in  his  cheery  way ;  this  let  me  know  I  was  recog- 
nized and  expected,  whereat  I  walked  calmly  on  to 
meet  them. 

As  I  came  closer  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  as  stead- 
fastly on  uncle  as  though  I  had  been  looking  for  him 
all  my  life.  I  believe  I  bowed  to  him  as  he  came 
up ;  how  ridiculous  it  all  seems  now. 

"  V/here  are  you  off  to,  Helen  ?  "  he  asked,  glanc- 
ing at  the  jug. 

"  I'm  going  to  Humphrey's,"  I  said,  gazing  into 
the  empty  pitcher ;  "  going  for  cream — ours  at  home 
won't  whip."  Then  I  felt  how  silly  this  must  sound 
to  a  stranger.  For  I  knew,  without  being  told,  that 
this  was  no  country  elder,  and  that  he  had  never 
heard  of  PoUocksville. 

"  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Lord,"  said  my  uncle,  pay- 
ing no  further  attention  to  my  remark ;  "  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Lord— the  friend  of  Dr.  Paine's  that  Mr.  Furvell 
told  us  about.  He's  to  be  our  guest.  Mr.  Lord, 
this  is  my  niece.  Miss  Helen  Randall." 

The  stranger  lifted  his  hat — it  was  a  low-crowned 
felt — and  bowed.  His  bow  was  deferential  enough, 
but  it  lacked  the  Southern  touch.     Less  low,  less 


^n    ALTERNATII^E  6i 

obeisant.  sooner  finished.  And  he  seemed  rather 
surprised  when  I  extended  my  hand-I  noticed  how 
firm  and  strong  was  Ins-and  he  didn't  bow  low 
again  when  he  took  it,  as  a  Southern  man  would 
have  done.  Nor  did  he  hold  h.s  hat  in  his  hand 
while  we  spoke  together ;  this  I  remarked  particu- 
larly. 

"  My  name's  not  Lord.  Mr.  Lundy."  he  said  with 
a  smile  as  he  turned  from  me;  "  it's  Laird-not  a 
great^  difference.  I'll  admit.     Only  that's  the  Scotch 

"  ^^  "'^*  '°  ^  "  said  my  uncle  interestedly.  "  They 
do  sound  something  alike,  don't  they  ?  Perhaps  I'm 
further  wrong."  he  went  on  smilingly;  -<  it  just  oc- 
curs to  me  I  should  say  Dr.  Laird.  Are  you  a  doc- 
tor, sir  ?  "  enquired  Uncle  Henry  respectfully 

The  other  smiled.  .« No."  he  answered  slowly 
"  I  m  quite  undecorated.  You  see.  D.  D.'s  aren't 
quite  so-so  generously  distributed."  the  smile  wid- 
ening. ..  on  our  side  of  the  water.  You've  either 
goMo  be  very  brilliant-or  very  prosy_to  get  on. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  not  one  of  those  two."  declared 
my  uncle. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  which  one,"  said  the  stranger  • 
"however,  we'll  lave  it  go  at  that,  as  an  Irish  friend 
of  mine  says.     But  anyhow.  I'm  not  a  doctor-veiy 


62 

plai 


7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


n  name   mine 


is,  Mr.  Lundy ;  just  plain  Laird, 
Gordon  Laird.  Let  me  carry  that  bajj,"  he  suddenly 
digressed,  reaching  for  the  valise ;  "  it's  pretty  heavy 
tw     or  three  sermons  there,  you  know," 

His  offer  of  assistance  was  stoutly  rejected,  as  any 
one  who  knew  Uncle  Henry  could  easily  have  fore- 
told. 

I  was  silent  all  this  time.     Bi    I  was  busy  making 
notes ;  and  my  pen  flows  easily,  as  if  its  story  were 
of  yesterday,  while   I   record  the  impressions  that 
came  so  fast  and  have  remained  so  long.     I  recall 
how  strange  the  Scottish  voice  sounded  to  me,  not 
harsh  and  strident  as  I  thought  all  Scottish  voices 
were,  but  refined  and  cultured.     The  way  he  rolled 
his  "  r's  "  and  sounded  his  final  "  ings  "  was  in  de- 
cided contrast  to  our  Southern  way  of  slurring  the 
one  and  mincing  the  other.     Rather  pleasing,  too,  I 
thought  it.     He  was  tall— taller  than  uncle — and  his 
figure  was  of  athletic  build,  erect  and  supple,  as  if  he 
had   given   himself   freely  to  exercise   out-of-doors. 
Especially  noticeable  were  the  shoulders,  so  broad 
and  so  well  held  back,  giving  the  chest  an  appear- 
ance of  greater  expansion  than  it  really  had.     But  I 
think  the  face  impressed  me  most  of  all.     It  was 
ruddy,  as  the  sea-polished  faces  of  those  Scotchmen 
are  so  apt  to  be  ;  a  strong  Scottish  face  it  was,  serious, 
almost  stern  when  in  repose — all  Scotchmen  natur- 


\ 

f1 


yin    A  LTERNATIFE 


65 


ally  think  much  about  Etcrnity-and  yet  the  hps 
thin  and  mobile,  looked  as  if  laughter  were  never  far 
away.     The  mouth  was  really  remarkable,  evidently 
framed  for  public  speech,  although  its  proximity  to 
a  very  resolute  jaw  lent  it  a  look  of  Scottish  fixity 
that  really  wasn't  there  at  all.  even  if  he  was  the  Rev- 
erend  Gordon    Laird.     His   forehead    was  high_a 
httJe  too  narrow.  I  thought,  to  meet  my  view  of 
what   Carlyle   would    have  admired-and  evidently 
harboured  much  within ;  for  I  have  a  theory  that  fore- 
heads shine  if  there  is  anything  bright  behind  them 
as    cathedral  windows    are    lightened   by   an   altar 
fire.     This  high  brow  lost  itself  in  a  very  comely 
head  of  hair;  auburn.  I  must  frankly  state  it  was,  but 
a  very  superior  kind  of  auburn,  the  semi-ruddy  wave- 
lets having  half  a  mind  to  curl  after  a  fashion  of 
youthful^  days.     I    verily   believe   they  z,,ould  have 
curled,  had   it  not  been   for  the  close-buttoned  vest 
and  clerical  coat  he  wore;  these  canonicals  never 
could  have  kept  their  dignity  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  kmky  hair.     The  nose  was  big.  as  all  the  best 
mens  noses  are.     It  stood  out  in  a  personal  kind  of 
way.  hke  an  independent  promontory ;  and  it  had 
the  slightest  little  terminal  tilt-it  wasn't  turned  up, 
it  was  aspiring. 

This,  I  think,  describes  fairly  well  the  man  who  was 
not  an  elder  and  had  never  heard  of  PoUocksville. 


tsas 


64 


THE   AT7IC   GUEST 


.J/:! 


I 


All  except  the  ejes,  which  deserve  a  separate  para- 
graph. Ill  fact,  there  would  be  no  paragraphs  and 
no  chapters  and  no  literature  at  all,  were  it  not  for 
the  eyes  of  men — women  too — and  all  that  lies  be- 
hind the  eyes,  all  the  soul  of  things  and  the  passion 
of  life  and  the  foregleams  of  Eternity.  Well,  the 
eyes  of  the  Reverend  Gordon  Laird  were  just  such  as 
the  Reverend  Gordon  Laird  had  a  right  to  have. 
I'm  sure  there  is  no  Presbytery  in  Christendom,  nor 
any  bishop,  nor  any  other  human  judge  or  authority 
who  could  as  well  determine  just  what  brand  of  eyes 
would  match  that  particular  name,  as  could  a  simple 
maiden  who  had  never  met  this  certain  sort  of  man 
before.  And  I  thought  the  eyes  and  the  name  were 
a  perfect  match.  They — the  eyes,  I  mean — were 
nearer  brown  than  anything  else ;  the  kind  of  eyes 
that  could  never  be  content  to  be  one  particular  hue 
— they  seemed  to  have  got  their  blend  from  the  sky, 
which,  as  everybody  knows,  selects  no  colour  but 
takes  toll  of  all.  And  they  were  frank,  so  frank  and 
honest — eager,  too,  inquisitive,  in  a  reverent  sort  of 
way;  penetrating  they  seemed  to  be — the  more  pene- 
trating because  they  were  rather  veile?' — and  they 
looked  to  be  in  quest  of  truth,  and  love,  and  life. 
Yes,  life  ;  I  think  the  eyes  of  ..le  Reverend  Gordon 
Laird  had  more  of  life  in  them  than  any  others  I 
have  ever  seen — not  bright,  or  animated,  or  brilliant, 


\ 


\ 


'*«   ALTERNATIi^E 


65 


or  anything  of  «,a,  sort;  but  life,  with  all  i.s  mystery 

and   loneLnes,  and  longinB.  seemed  .„  lie  deVp  ^ 

them,  like  water  in  a  silent  well. 
The  two  men  went  on  their  way  a  moment  later. 

unce  swmg,„K  the  valise  quite  playfully  ,0  show 
Wh„...,  "Ihope  to  see  you  later,"  sa,d 

"'-  '^•'^■"="<'  f="'''™   I-=ird  as  I  started  „„  •  ..  ,„d 
P-haps   ril   be   intro.I„ced    ,0   that   eream  'yo  're 
g"".g  to  get,''  he  added,  in  q„i,e  ,  „on  ministerial  way 
^;^.ot.n,i..swhipped,..said:,  holding  the  pitchr; 

■■Thafs  when  ifll  be  good,"  replied  the  cleric 

some  hmg  of  the  moralist  in  his  voice  this  time 
I  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when   I  suddenly 

stopped,  looked  back,  calculated.  For  .n  idea  hd 
come  to  me-and  I  knew  a  short  cut  home     A 

asty  fl,g  t  through  a  neighbour's  yard,  straight 
-   an  old  pme  tree  that  George  Washington  was 

-•d.ted  w,,h  planting,  along  a  narrow  alley  that  led 

;  °"  "^^  e-O™.  «"M  bring  me  the'e  befo 
.Lose  deliberate  two  would  have  arrived 

Three  minutes  later  I  was  in  the  sitting-room 
breathless  almost.  ••  Ifs  a  minister,"  I  said  -a' 
young  rainister-and  he's  Scotch  as  heather."  I 
have  often  wondered  since  where  I  got  this  ex- 
FessK..n^  bu,  I  believe  I  heard  it  from  old' Mc- 
Uughhn.     He  was  the  only    Scotchman    in    our 


mother  in 


k    Mk,   for   they 


III' 


•'  \\ 


had  donned 
came    from 

.wi    on 

s  a  min- 

id  the 


66  THE   ATTIC   Gl'tST 

whole  town,  and  he  always  wore      s  lawl  to  churt  i, 

and  put  a  penny  on  the  plate. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Aunt  Agnes 
unison.     They    were   both    in 
knew  it  was  train  time.     Anc    f 
two     real     tortoise-shell    comb 
Tiffany's. 

"  Uur  elder,"  I  gasped,  sta'/T 
the  mantel;  "he  isn't  an  eldc.  tall 
ister— with  one  of  those  vests  ;  lat  t. 
throat  like  a  sweater— the  same  as  the  Episcopalians 
wear-and  fair  hair.  And  I  lun  back  to  tcU  you 
not  to  put  him  in  the  attic,"  I  concluded,  lifting  my 
eyes  heavenward  as  I  spoke. 

..  A  sweater  vest  and  fair  hair  !  "  my  aunt  echoed 
in  mock  gravity  ;  "  is  that  all  he  has  on  ? " 

"Not  put  him  in  the  attic?"  exclaimed  my 
mother,  scornful  of  merriment  at  such  an  hour, 
"why   shouldn't   we   put   him  there— where  would 

you  have  him  put  ?  " 

.ny  of  the  rooms,"  I  answered  promptly  ;  "  my 

room." 

<•  Mercy,  child,  we'd  nave  to  get  all  your  things 
out  of  it  and  turn  everything  upside  down,"  my 
mother  returned  seriously,  "and  they'll  be  here 
in  a  few  minutes.     What  happened  to  the  cider?" 

"  i  don't  know.     I  don't  remember.     Uncle  did 


r 


't'..i..:/"^ 


W«    y^LTERNATll^E 


67 


say  something  about  why  he  didn't  come-I  think 
he's  s.ck,  or  dead,  or  something.  But  I'm  not  sure. 
And  we  can  easily  keep  Mr.  Laird  down-stairs  till 
we  get  things  changed  around.  It  xvouldn't  need 
much-m.  „  never  look  into  drawees  and  closes  hke 
women  do,"  I  assured  them. 

"  •^^'•-  Laird  !  ••  echoed  both  my  auditors  almost  in 
chorus.     "  Is  that  his  name?" 

LairJ-'''      '     ''''^'    "^'''     """'''    ^'''•'■^-Gordon 
"  Goodness   me  f  '   exclaimed    my   motl^er.  ••  but 
you've   n,ade   gooJ   progress.     I    hope  you    didn't 
call  him  Gordon.     How  oh!  is  he  ?  " 

'•I  don't  know,"  I    rct.rtcd,   treating   the   thrust 
-th  sdence.  ..  and   I   don't  care-I  don't  care  any- 
t-ng   about   him.     You   know   I'm    not    r.uch   on 
prcachers-and  anyhow,  I'ni  going   to  the  theatre 
tu-n.ght  with   Charlie.     But  I  took  all  this  trouble 
.or  your  sakes."  I  went  on  in  a  rather  injured  tone; 
•I  d.dn  t  suppose     ou'd  want  to  coop  anybody  like 
^>m  up  at  the  top  of  the  house.     But  I  don't  care  " 
1  concluded  vehemently. 

My  Aunt  Agnes  was  at  the  window.     "  -^hey're 
ccmung/'  she  announced,  without  turning  her  head 
'\our   Uncle    Henry   cert.  .,ly   should    hav.   .ent 
^Moses  ,or  that  valise-and  he  certainly  is  v  '\  " 
Mother  by  this   time   was    at   the   window   too 


68 


THE   ATTfC   GUEST 


"  He   isn't  any  taller  than  Mr.  Giddens,"  she  pro- 
nounced, after  a  little  silence. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  I 
said,  a  trifle  petulantly,  for  they  both  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  I  was  there. 

"  Really  I  hardly  know,"  my  aunt  began  reflect- 
ively ;  "  it  does  seem  hardly  the  thing  to " 

"  There's  no  use  talking  about  it,"  my  mother 
broke  in ;  "  it's  too  late  to  make  any  change  now. 
And  anyhow,  Henry  wouldn't  like  it,  I'm  sure— he'd 
think  it  wasn't  fair  to  the  elder." 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  elder  from  PoUocks- 
ville,"  chanted  my  aunt  solemnly. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  reaching  towards  the  mantel  for 
the  pitcher,  "just  as  you  like.  He's  not  mjy  guest— 
and  I'm  going  for  the  cream." 

And  I  reflected  as  I  went — or  if  I  didn't,  I  have 
often  done  so  since — how  full  is  life  of  this  same 
proceeding.  Thwarted  plans  and  broken  promises 
and  disappointed  hopes — yet  all  that  remains  for  us 
is  to  take  up  our  humdrum  tasks  again,  to  pick  up 
our  waiting  pitcher  and  go  our  way  through  some 
back  alley  and  across  some  homely  yard — for  the 
cream. 


I 


They  were  still  on  the  porch  when  I  got  back. 
And  -Mr.  Laird  was  swinging  away  in  one  of  the  big 


ea.y  chate,  a.  much  a.  home  a.  if  he  had  known  „s 
aniushfe.  M.sha.„as„l„go„,hefloorandh,s 
l.a.r  wns  hardly  a  bit  red  in  the  failing  light  He 
rose  as  I  came  on  to  the  porch.  "■<■■"= 

;•  Did  you  get  the  cream  ?  "  he  asked  seriously,  as 
If  It  were  a  matter  of  importance 

this ?■  '""J  ""' " '-^"'  ""•"'""^ ^'-y « i' by 

h.st,me     She's  our  cook,  you  know,"  I  added  in- 
formatively. 

■■Im  vastly  ,.;,„s,ed  in  these  darkies,"  he  said  as 
we  both  sat  down.  ••  We  have  very  few  of  them  in 
Ed,„burgh_.he  thermometer  doesn't  agree  with 
them.  They  re  quite  a  study,  aren't  they  ?  "  point- 
■ng  as  he  spoke  ,0  a  sable  boy  who  was  carr  ,ng  a 
pail  across  tlie  yard.  ' 

••  You'll  find  the  life  here  very  different,  won't  you, 
^■r?     my  uncle  remarked  ;  "  but  I  suppose  you  l-ear 
a  great  deal,  even  in  Scotland,  of  what's  called  the 
Nigger  problem,'  don't  you  ?  " 
•■  Y«,"  returned  our  visitor,  "  we're  reminded  of  it 
rather  smrtlinply  sometimes-by  what  we  see  in  the 
newspapers^     But  I  suppose  such  despatches-about 
lynch  aw,  I  mean-are  decidedly  exaggerated." 

Uncles  face  clouded  a  little.  "  I  never  saw  any 
of  your  papers,  of  course,"  he  said  ;  "  bu,  I  should 
fancy  .would  be  difficult  .0  exaggerate  much  about 
some  thmgs  that  have  happened  in  the  South  sir  " 


70 


■THE    A-J-riC    GUEST 


"  Then  there  must  be  some  terrible  scenes  of 
brutahty,"  rejoined  Mr.  Laird,  looking  about  the 
circle  in  an  evident  attempt  to  make  the  conversation 

general. 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  call  brutality,  sir," 
my  uncle  answered,  his  voice  suddenly  intense,  his 
eyes  fixed  very  earnestly  on  his  guest.  "  We  reckon 
here,  sir— all  Southern  gentlemen  reckon— that  peo- 
ple who  have  only  heard  of  these  things,  and  who  are 
not— who  aren't  familiar  with  the  situation;  we 
reckon,  sir,  that  they're  hardly  justified  in  pronoun- 
cing an  opinion." 

I  think  Aunt  Agnes  must  have  scented  danger 
ahead.  In  any  case  she  suddenly  gave  the  conversa- 
tion a  mighty  jerk  in  another  direction.  "  Oh,  by  the 
way,  Henry,"  she  began,  as  if  it  had  everything  to  do 
with  the  race  question,  "  have  you  any  idea  what 
happened  the  elder  from  PoUocksville  ?  " 

If  uncle  felt  any  surprise  at  the  rather  violent 
digression  he  concealed  it  remarkaoly  well.  "  Yes," 
he  answered  calmly.  "  Mr.  Furvell  got  word  about 
him  at  the  last  minute.  It  seems  he  has  thirteen 
children,  and  one  got  lost — you'd  think  he  had 
enough  left,  wouldn't  you  ?  But  he  got  in  quite  a 
fuss  about  it,  and  that's  why  he  wasn't  able  to  get 
away.  So  we'd  have  been  left  without  a  guest  alto- 
gether if  our  friend  hadn't  happened  along,"  and  my 


f 


^n    ALTERNATIVE  7, 

uncle  made  a  courtly  little  bou'  in  the  direction  of 
Mr,  Laird. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  saiJ  the  latter,  evidently  very  inter- 
ested. .'  I'm  an  alternative  then.  Well,  I'm  here 
anyhow— and  that's  the  main  thing." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Laird,  there  was  no  alternative  about 
>t,"  broke  in  my  aunt,  ••  nothing  of  the  sort.  If  our 
elder  had  come  you  were  to  go  with  Dr.  Paine  to 
Mrs.  Keen's-and  then  we'd  have  lost  you/'  smiling 
very  sweetly  as  she  spoke. 

"  Weel,"  replied  Mr.  Laird  jocosely,   •.  it's  an  ill 
wind  that  blaws  naebody  guid,'  as  they  say  in  my 
country.      If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  youngster  stray- 
mg  away.  I  wouldn't  have  been  here.     So  I'm  an 
advocate  of  large  families  from  this  time  on." 
"  So  am  I,"  said  my  Aunt  Agnes. 
"  But  there's  a  matter  in  connection  with  the  elder 
we    expected,"  my   mother    began    rather    timidly. 
"  and  It's  something  that's  troubling  us  a  little." 

Mr.  Laird  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  be  en- 
lightened. 

"  And  I  may  just  as  well  tell  you  now,"  went  on 
my  mother;  "  it's  about  where  we  were  going  to  put 
him—and  that's  where  we  have  to  put  you." 

"  That's  t;...-  worst  of  it,"  ejaculated  my  Aunt  Agnes. 

"  You  see,"  resumed  my  mother,"  we  thought  you 
were  going  to  be  m  eldcr-and  wc  were  going  to  put 


'■A 


72 

him 


THE   ATTIC  GUEST 


in  the  attic,"  the  dread  tidings  coming  at  last 
with  a  splash.    "  And  we  do  hope  you  won't  mind, 

Mr.  Laird — you  see  if  we  had  ever  thought " 

"  Wc  won't  make  any  apologies  to  our  guest,"  my 
now  broke  in,  his  tone  indicating  that  he 
'  M  dn't  object  to  being  heard.  "  You're  welcome  as 
t  flowers  in  May,  Mr.  Laird— and  there's  a  fire- 
place in  your  room  in  the  attic.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  it's  always  seemed  to  me  if  a  fellow's  got  a  wel- 
come and  an  open  fire,  the  attic's  just  as  good  as  the 
parlour." 

Mr.  Laird  looked  delighted.  "  I'm  in  love  with  it 
already,"  he  responded  gleefully  ;  "  I  wouldn't  trade 
it  for  any  room  in  the  house.  I  couldn't  imagine," 
he  went  on  mirthfully,  "  what  was  coming.  I 
thought  it  must  be  the  dog-kennel,  or  a  dark  closet, 
or  a  wood-shed ;  but  an  attic — and  a  fireplace !  Why, 
bless  my  heart,  there's  nothing  in  the  world  I  love 
like  an  attic— secluded,  lofty,  roomy — it's  the  best 
place  in  the  house.     Let  us  see  it  now." 

"  Where's  Moses?  "said  my  uncle  ;  "  he'll  take  your 
valise  up  for  you.  It's  plain,  but  it's  comfortable, 
Mr.  Laird.  And  if  you  Hke  it,  there's  just  one  way 
I  want  you  to  show  it." 

"  And  what  might  that  be?  "  asked  our  visitor. 

"  Don't  be  in  any  hurry  about  leaving,"  said  my 
uncle  with  serious  air. 


^n   ALTERNATIVE  73 

"  No,  we'll  think  you  don't  like  it  if  you  arc." 
chimed  in  my  aunt. 

"  Where's  Moses  ?  "  asked  uncle  again. 

"  I  don't  know  where  Moses  is,"  sa.d  the  Reverend 
Gordon  Laird,  his  face  as  sober  as  a  judge,  .•  but  one 
thing  I  do  know-I've  heard  of  Southern  hospitalit)-, 
and  the  half  was  never  told." 

Uncle  bowed;  Aunt  Agnes  smiled  graciously.  As 
for  me.  I  had  disappeared. 

"  What  have  you  be.n  up  to  now  ?  You  certainly 
d.d  get  out  of  the  way  in  a  hurry-you've  been  up  to 
the  attic  yourself,  haven't  you.  now?"  for  mother 
saw  that  I  was  flurried  and  out  of  breath  when  I  re- 
turned. 

It  was  a  little  while  before  I  owned  up  But  I 
reckoned  they'd  find  out  sooner  or  later  anyhow 
"  Well,"  I  said  at  last.  «  yes,  if  you  will  know.  I  ran 
up  and  put  my  silver  toilet  set  on  the  dresser-it 
helped  ever  so  much  to  make  things  look  decent. 
And  I  took  up  those  roses  from  the  librar)-they 
make  the  whole  room  look  difTerent." 

"  Those  roses  !"  my  mother  echoed  ;  "  why.  child. 
Mr.  Giddens  sent  you  those  roses  just  this  morning' 
—they're  American  beauties,  Helen." 

"I  know  it,"  I  answered  calmly,  -so  they'll  be 
something  new-to  him.  Besides,  there's  some  re- 
spect due  a  clergyman  from  Edinburgh." 


VI 

THE  GLINT  OF  THE  HEATHER 

CHARLIE  dropped  in  for  supper  that  even- 
ing. I  don't  remember  whether  or  not  he 
was  specially  invited  and  it  doesn't  matter. 
He  came  while  everybody  except  myself  was  in  the 
last  stages  of  preparation  for  the  evening  meal ;  I  was 
in  the  hall  as  he  came  in. 

The  first  thing  that  caught  his  eye — after  me — 
was  the  clerical  hat  that  hung  between  two  of  uncle's 
broad-rimmed  grays.  He  put  it  on  and  made  very 
merry  over  it.  It  was  decidedly  too  large  for  him 
too ;  as  soon  as  he  noticed  that,  he  tipped  it  jauntily 
to  the  back  of  his  head — even  then  it  looked  big. 
The  Reverend  Gordon's  attic  was  certainly  the  best 
room  in  his  bodily  edifice. 

"  Your  elder  didn't  turn  up  ?  "  said  Charlie. 

«'  No,  he  didn't  come." 

"  And  you  got  the  clergyman  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  Up-stairs  right  now?" 

"  Yes." 

"  In  the  attic  ? " 

74 


.\w':&>%:rsw:." 


T^mf'\-  -K  "^J. 


'^VHaSg 


The    GLINT  of   The   HEATHER     75 

"  That's  where  he  is." 

Charlie  re,ur„cd  .i,c  l,a.  to  its  peg.  Then  he  took 
off  h,s  overcoa,,  di,d„si„g  a  faultless  evening  dress 

.  Wh".:':  '-  °-  ""i""-  point  that  niglu  • 
carelIr'"'"''^^°''='^"''=''-°"'"--'^ui-<i 

•■  He's  about  your  age,"  said  I. 
"  Nice  ?  " 

■•  Uncle  thinks  so,"  I  answered  cautiously 
hi!  "r'^^-— "-«'<' -'-has  She  looked 

M  really  don't  know-he's  only  been  here  an  hour 
or  two.     You  certainly  do  look  nice  to-night,  Char- 

^2»o«  long  is  this  cleric  going  to  stay?"  l,e  pur- 

"  '  don't  know.     I  ,,eard  uncle  telling  !,;„,  ,„  ,^^ 
as  long  as  he  could."  ' 

"  What  denomination  is  he  ?  " 
"  "='°"B'  '°  '!'=  true  church,"  said  I 
■■I  thought  Mr.  Furvell  said  l,e  was  Presbyterian." 
bo  he,._l,,s  from  Edinburgh.     And  he's  vastly 
"'"'"=■'-«-     They  don't  gro„. 'en,  ovet 
he    .  ...eems.     He  got  on  pretty  thin  ice  with 
uncle-they  were  talking  the  nigger  problem." 

said  M"''r";r'  '"'  '""  ""■''  "P  ""  conve^ation." 
sa,d  Mr.  Cddens,  with  a  little  curl  of  the  lip 


■miL^l 


76 


7  HE   /IT  TIC   GUEST 


"  But  they  weren't,"  I  protested;  "  he's  a  splendid 
talker — hush,  there  he's  coming  now,"  as  I  heard  a 
footfall  on  the  stair.     "  Come  and  meet  him." 

I  introduced  the  two  men  to  each  other.  They 
stood  talking  a  little  in  the  hall — and  I  watched  them 
while  I  listened.  Charlie  was  in  full  dress,  as  I  have 
said,  with  diamond  accompaniment ;  Mr,  Laird  was 
in  his  clericals.  They  stood  close  together,  chatting 
very  pleasantly  ;  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  two  finer 
types  of  men,  both  strong  and  straight  and  tall — 
though  Charlie  wasn't  quite  so  tall.  The  Southerner 
had  the  keenest  face,  I  thought,  bright  and  animated, 
with  eager,  penetrating  eyes,  and  his  whole  bearing 
was  that  of  a  high-minded  and  successful  man  of  the 
world.  They  were  discussing  "  futures  "  at  the  time, 
I  think,  suggested  doubtless  by  preliminary  remarks 
about  the  weather  and  the  prospect  of  the  cotton 
crop.  I  know  I  was  surprised  to  observe  that  the 
Reverend  Gordon  Laird  was  by  no  means  ignorant 
of  the  subject ;  strange  subject,  too,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  xt— futures,  which  comprise  a  great  deal 
more  than  cotton  ! 

Perhaps  Charlie  had  the  keener  face,  as  I  have 
said,  but  there  was  more  of  insight  in  Mr.  Laird's. 
His  were  the  more  wistful  eyes,  as  if  they  were  look- 
ing for  something  not  to  be  found  on  the  surface. 
And  really,  of  the  two,  the  Scotchman  seemed  to  be 


vilO 


,^^'- 


"'  «^'A.r  ./  rne  h bather    „ 

doiiig  the  most  of  tlie  insm>ri;n      r 

patronize  him,  ..  busings  mea  arc  :    !'.:  d""  V" 
cl-gymen.    For  .he  „,;„,«„,  his  dene  ,  ""* 

collar  to  the  ronf„  clerical  coat  and 

-.avi„r;er::~;t^^^^^^^^^^^ 

""l-orlant  as  the  o.herV  LTr  ™ '"'' ^ 

I  should  hardiy  say  this  «  an  2°  ?       •  I     '' 
«ac,ly  how  I  could  defend  .-^     ,  1  "°" 

definable  something  about  hin,  M  "  '™  '"  ""■ 

M^.  Laird  .eiconel  hi    :„r'^:'  '-'•=-  f- 
the  worlds  good  as  tl„,    /  ""^sary  to 

n.-,  even  of  a  wea,  ,  '  '      °"^  "^^P-"-  ^-n- 

■•"avey„u:e:xr~°r'"''""'- 

G.<ide„s  took  advantage  of    e;:r''  "'• 

■■  No."  -id  the  other      ■     m  !  ^  ™^"'™- 

ifs  onlv  t„. ,        ,  ^""^  "  tenderfoot- 

only  two  weeks  since  I  landed  at  Ne„.  v    ^      , 

came  straight  South  to  see  Dr   p!  ' 

P"«graduate  session  in  Kl    J^     u        '  ""^  '"""^  » 

"'"=•     n'e  scraoeT        .'^•'''"'""•S'''  '"d  I  met  him 

-"•'camnrrr'''— --^"^p— thafs 

"  '"  '^"""•"■".cation  with  the  Colo- 


•78 


•THE   ATTIC    GULS7 


nial  Committee;  and  it's  just  possible  I  may  take 
work  in  Caii.ula.  They're  sorely  in  need  of  men 
there,  it  seems." 

••  It's  a  wonderful  country,"  pronounced  Charlie ; 
"  I  spent  a  week  once  between  Montreal  and  Quebec. 
There's  untold  wealth  m  Canada,  if  it  were  onl)-  ex- 
ploited." 

"  That's  what  I  have  heard,"  said  Mr.  Laird  ;  "  and 
I'd  like  to  lend  a  hand,"  he  added  quietly,  the  ear- 
nestness cif  his  eyes  interpieting  his  words.  But 
Charlie  evidently  did  not  understand  him. 

"  You  mean  in  the  way  of  investment,   sir?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Reverend  Gu.don  Laird;  "  yes,  I 
guess  that's  it — yes,  investment." 

This  somewhat  enigmatical  conversation  was  ter- 
minated by  the  advent  of  the  other  members  of  the 
family,  all  quite  ready  for  the  supper  that  was  wait- 
ing. And  a  decidedly  animated  circle  it  was  that 
surrounded  our  well- laden  board.  Uncle  was  in  fine 
spirits,  as  he  ever  was  when  he  had  congenial  com- 
pany, and  the  honours  of  his  attention  were  pretty 
evenly  divided  between  the  Scotchman  and  the 
Southerner. 

It  was  delightful  to  watch  the  interest  and  surprise 
of  our  clerical  guest,  so  new  and  different  did  every- 
thing appear  to  him.  For  our  dear  Southland  has 
fashions  all  its  own,  each  one  of  them  more  delicious 


7//C-  GL/XT  of  -TUc  UEATHLR  79 
than  aaoLhcr.  Pchap.  this  i.  c.pcxially  true  of  u hat 
wo  cat  and  of  how  uc  ,^0  about  it.  W,  had  a  col- 
ourcd  bc.y  u-iih  a  Ion.  feather  fan  whose  duty  it  ua. 
ta  guard  US  horn  the  Hies.  Th.s  amu.ed  h..  vastly  • 
-pcculiy  once  uhea  n.y  aunt  motioned  hnu  to  Jook 

-the  du.I<y  Wa..:u.,toa  ua.  ahno..t  a.leepj.ann,g 
aganu.  the  •..!!.  And  so  n.any  of  our  dishes  seen.ed 
to  str.ke  the  foreigner  as  the  neuest  and  n.ost  pal- 

l»ttle  fish-shaped  dishes-they  looked  all  ready  to 
sw.m  and  sueet  potatoes  and  corn  bread  and 
fned  ch.cken.  and  hot  b.scuits  too.  and  a  lot  of  other 
thmgs  bcotchn.en  never  see.  It  was  lovely  to  watch 
Aunt  Agnes'  face.  bri.dUening  wuh  every  recurring 
exc  amat.on  of  surprise  or  pleasure  from  our  visitor 
On  the  other  hand  he  was  hardly  less  interesting 

to  us.     A  really  new  type  is  something  to  which  a 
•ttle  Southern   town  is  seldom  treated-we  are  so 
fearfully  native-born.     And  Gordon  Laird  (the  Rev- 
erend  can't   be  alwa^-s   used)  seemed   to   brn.g  with 
J"'"  the  flavour  of  the  world  wkhout,     H.s  accent 
was  so  d,frerent.as   I   have  said;  and   many  of  his 
terms  were  so   unfamiliar  to   us.     For  mst.nce.  we 
soon  ren^arked   that   he  referred  to   the  Episcopal 
church  as  the  Church  of  England;  and  once  or  twice 
he  spoke  of  the  «  Kirk  Session."  which  had  to  be  ex- 
plained; and  he  rarely  used  the  term  "  pastor "  or 


|i  «'^- 


80  7 HE   ATTIC   GUEST 

..preacher,"   as   wc   did_it   was  always  "  minister  " 
,^ith  him.     It  was  most  intcrc.t.n-.  too.  to  hear  h.m 
talk  of  Edinburgh,  of  its  castle,  its    iiolyrood.  .ts 
Princes  Street,  its  Scott's  monument,  its  haunts  of 
Knox  and  memories  of  Burns. 

..  Fo'  de  Lawd,  Miss  Helen,  dat  new  preacher,  he  s 
got  a  heap  o'  learnin',"  Lyddie  said  one  day.  "  an'  he 
knows  how  to  let  it  out,  dafs  sho'." 

That  very  first  night,  that  first  supper,  I  mean, 
found  us  all  listening  with  great  intentness  to  h.s  de- 
script.on  of  much  we  had  hardly  ever  heard  of  be- 
fore     1  remember  he  spoke  of  higher  criticism,  giv- 
ing the  names  of  two  or  three  great  Scottish  scholars, 
and  he  seemed  a  little  disappointed  to  find  we  had 
never  heard  of  the  latter  and  but  little  more  than 
heard  of  the  former.     H.  spoke,  it  seemed  to  me.  as 
if  this  higher  criticism  were  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance, almost  as  if  it  were  troubling  his  own  soul 
—but  this  I  did  not  understand  till  long  after. 

The  discussion  ran  so  .steadily  along  church  linc> 
that  even  Charlie,  who  was  not  very  strong  ..> 
matters  ecclesiastical,  contributed  a  question. 

..  What  church  does  your  Queen  belong  to,  Mr. 

l^ird?"  he  asked. 

..  To  the  Presbyterian."  repUed  our  guest,  looking 
very  candidly  at  the  questioner ;  "  when  she  is  m 
Scotland,  that  is." 


♦ 


Th 


O^IN  T  of    The    HEATHER 


8l 


"^';'"  -'J  ^'^arUc...  I  always  thought  .he  be- 
longed to  the  State  church." 

"  So  she  due.,    rephed  the  other.  ..and  that  i.  the 
State  church  of  Scotland" 

••Mis,  .,c,c.„  t„i„U  thafa  fine;'  bro.c  i„  „, 
-^l=.  "  1  n=  sure  iK-r  fer-ofl-  a„c«.ors  „,„«  have 
Uc„  Scotch  lVcsby,„ia„s,  Mr.  La.rd  She's  ! 
regular  Puritan-ui  theory  •• 

••  Then  y  ,,  be  ,oh,g  to  the  service  at  the  o,.e:. 
".«  of  Presbytery  to-night.  Mi..  Randal,/'  .a.d  M. 
J-aird,  turning  to  me, 

I  >vas  silent,  not  knowing  just  what  to  say.     Yet 

e„  .  at  uncles  statement  was  quite  just'all  the 

.,me.     1  or  ever  since  a  cluid,  I  had  had  a  kind  of 

pa^so„ated«.otion  to   the   church  of  ,,,y   rathe.; 

et    t.s  only  fa,r  to  add  that  if  there  was  one  gir 
"an  our  town  who  would  not  have  been  call 
el,g,ous,  „  ,o  would,  in  fact,  have  bee,,  called  a  gay 

SOClCtV     ET  rl-  uh-ifr     o  ^   ' 

se™    ,  ^'    earish    definition    that 

s^^m,  to  n,e  now  !_I  „,,..  iha,  very  one 

"Wlrnt  her  uncle  says  about  Helen  reminds  me 
"rson.ethn,B  I  must  tell  you,  .^rr.  Laird.-  began  nTy 
-er    breaking  .,,,,,_,,,^,,,^^,^-^^ 

her  pon,.e  question.  ".  always  .aught  her  the 
■Wer  Cateclnsm  when  she  was  a  litUe  girl-made 

'°"°""'8  ''"  "-"^  ""  yard  trying  to  get  her 


\'xm 


82 


THE   /ITTIC    GUEST 


I 


to  answer  what  is  Sanctification  ;  well,  she  suddenly 
turned  to  me,  and  what  do  you  think  she  said?" 

"  Couldn't  imagine,  I'm  sure,"  answered  Mr.  Laird. 

"  '  What's  the  use,  mother,'  she  said,  •  of  teaching 
me  all  this — when  perhaps  I  won't  marry  a  Presby- 
terian at  all  ? '  " 

"  All  the  more  need  of  it  then,"  replied  our 
guest  amid  the  laugh  that  followed ;  "  it  won't  be 
wasted  anyhow,  whoever  the  lucky  man  may  be. 
It's  wonderful  how  that  catechism  stays  with  you, 
when  once  it  gets  in  the  blood.  I  learned  it  on  the 
hills  of  Scotland,"  he  went  on,  his  deep  ejes  bright- 
ening a.s  if  the  memory  gave  him  joy,  "and  I 
hardly  ever  wander  now  in  wild  or  lonely  regions 
without  its  great  words  coming  back  to  me.  They 
go  well  together,  I  always  think— they're  both  lofty." 

"  On  the  hills  ?  "  echoed  Mr.  Giddens,  who  had 
never  lived  outside  the  city  ;  "  did  your  father  send 
you  there  to  learn  it  ? — pretty  hard  lines,  I  should  say." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mr.  Laird  answered  simply,  "  my  work 
lay  there.  I  used  to  take  care  of  sheep  on  the  hills 
— I  was  a  herd  laddie,  as  they  call  them  in  Scotland. 
•My  father  is  a  shepherd." 

I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  consternation  that  came 
on  every  face. 

"  What  did  you  say  about  your  father  ? "  my 
uncle   asked   involuntarily,  looking    up   impulsively 


) 

t 

i 


8j 


■T"^    OLINl   Of   TUe   HEATHER     „, 

him  off  his  f«,      .  Yo  '    '™"°"  '"''^^'P' 

fa.I.,r  "  "■"'  ''•"'^'''"S  about  your 

fat].er,  were  you  „o„"  ,„  ,„,„,^     .hinkin/Z 

quest,o„  more  delicate  in  this  form  ^ 

«iou?:;h::;' 1,^'^"'  -'"-"^  ^""^  --. 

«y  father  is  irpr^^HTLtj'T^^^'-^ 

-".     '"'Shepherd  gets  so  many  sheen  fnr 
himse  f  each  year    rt  ».■.       .    , .  P    ' 

"  Yes    V    ^  "    '-f  '  P^"  of  his  hire,  you  see." 
"«.  yes,   I  see,     rejoined  my  uncle,     ■.  Have 
some  more  of  the  ice-cream.  Mr.  Laird     VV    , 

as  funny,  had  .t  not  been  so  real,  to  see  uncle's  con 

rr  ^-'—--e.tomyprc:: 
--:::;■  Sermraur^-^-^--^ 

mo'tlfer'  nZ  ?"""    ""  '^    ™<"y."  ^^^ed    my 

.™"^h      'ftcrf:1"?7-'-^-™"- 
"-suddenfreshetX.:;;:!•''■""'-"''-- 
;■No    a,a„k  you,"  our  guest  ..nswered  quietly. 

^»»--r:rf;:z:t:'"r-"^ 

---    «.e    .ntcrrupted   then.c,":;,,^:::: 


84 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


goes  well  with  the  shepherd's  crook  ;  if  there's  any 
one  calling  in  the  world  that's  been  productive  of 
plain  Hving  and  high  thinking,  it's  the  shepherd's." 

•'  I  lalf  of  that  programme  appeals  to  me,"  laughed 
Charlie  Giddens,  helping  himself  generously  to  the 
chocolate  cake.  "  I'm  afraid  I'd  make  a  poor 
shepherd."  Charlie  see  -.ed  unable  to  keep  his  eyes 
from  Mr.  Laird's  face  ;  this  candour  of  biography  was 
quite  beyond  him. 

•'  But  it's  a  fact,"  our  Scotch  visitor  went  on  quite 
earnestly  ;  "  it's  wonderful  the  difference  there  has 
been,  as  a  class,  between  the  shepherds  and  the 
ploughmen,  in  Scotland.  The  shepherds  have  been 
so  much  superior ;  their  eyes  were  constantly  lifted 
to  the  iiills,  you  see,  and  the  others  had  to  keep 
theirs  on  the  ground.  Besides,  their  work  developed 
a  sense  of  responsibility — and  it  took  a  tender  man 
to  make  a  good  shepherd.  Oh,  yes,  the  shepherds 
of  Scotland  have  been  a  noble  race  of  men." 

"  And  your  father  is  still  living  in  Scotland?"  en- 
quired my  mother  from  across  the  table. 

"  Yes,'  he  answered  ;  "  yes,  he's  still  hving." 

"  That's  a  phase  of  life  we  haven't  been  privileged 
to  see,"  my  uncle  remarked,  concluding  quite  a 
lengthy  silence ;  "  indeed,  we  haven't  seen  anything 
of  your  Scottish  life  at  all.  I  have  often  thought  I'd 
love  especially  to  see  Edinburgh." 


1 


m'>y!fiss^^?jmsit^^^f?iT^smmse?sa^ 


T/< 


e   GLINT   of   T*.   HEATHER 


.  h   t  '"  ""  hea.h„_a„d  the  misB  roU- 

-S^back  over  the  mountain..  „,,,.,,„,,,,j;^ 

-""or.::::::::;::;---- 

Law"' Mr'r.r"T"'"'"^  ^  ^""-^^  '"P.  M- 
1-aira,     Mr.  Giddens  brolcp  in    i^  t  • 

ingiy  at  me.  '".looking  very  know- 

about  her  „,„uth,  ..p„h,p3         ,„  ^ 

before  veiy  lor^/."  ^"^^ 

Mr.  Laird  turned  and  looked  at  me  T  u 

face  betrayed  me      But  ,T  .  "°''  '"^^ 

.-er  he^..„.t  g  Ji 'i^rr  L'Txr;:; 

-.^;  .other  .th,„„„he„,o„er,C: 

G,r„l*'"''"'^"'^"'«'--"<'<>-*-Char,ie 

"  ^°  "■"  '•"  was  my  remark. 

••  Then  you  must  choose  a  fair-weather  season  for 

■■  B"'  you  can't  always  tell."  said  I.    ..  Often  the 
«orms  don',  come  till  you  get  out  to  sea." 


VII 


THE   GLORY   OF   THEIR    STRENGTH 

WE  went  to  tlie  theatre  that  night,  Charhe 
and  I,  as  we  had  arranged.  But  one  halt 
of  us  didn't  enjoy  it  very  much.  The 
play  was  a  hght,  frivolous  thing,  and  I  so  defined  it 
to  Charlie  before  the  second  act  was  through. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  the  gay  and  festive  sort,"  he 
said ;  "  I  do  believe  this  preachers'  convocation  is 
havin<*  a  depressing  influence  on  you,"  which  remark 
I  resented  not  a  little  ;  whatever  my  weaknesses  were, 
I  knew  susceptibility  to  the  clergy  was  not  one  of 
them. 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  retorted ;  "  but  the  thing 
isn't  true  to  life — life  was  never  one  long  cackle  like 
that.  Besides,  they  haven't  any  fire  on,  and  it's  cold 
— and  I'm  goinjr  home  after  the  next  act." 

Which  I  did,  sure  enough,  and  took  Charlie  with 
me.  Our  seats  were  near  the  front ;  and  I  must  con- 
fess I  did  enjoy  our  procession  down  the  aisle.  I 
could  '■^'e  the  looks  of  adminition  on  every  hand — of 
envy.  too.  from  some  maidenly  and  matronly  eyes. 
Char'ie  was  so  tall  and  straight  and  hand-some,  and 

86 


liad  such  an  original  head  of  hair      H,.    i 
our  townspeople   knew  he  J,,,  ^^  '""''  "' 

li"l=  city  „,ade  a  special.v  l  •"'""""'-"- 

->u.el,a,,or.hen  :  :,;,7•""^^^-™''=''- 
■^"^-l,.da«ooddea,  „  ';;::."t/'-' 
%ad,n,rerhadeon,erron,ra'^'f""^>'- 

too,  and  all  the  sons  of  Ham  "  '">■• 

a   distance  with  tie  1,  '""""'""«" '-"• 

»'.i'e  folks  al,  To  tL^""""   """'"•     ""' 
I  JO  very  different  after  tII  .     ..• 

very  odd  sort  r^f  „•  i  .u       ,  ^"  •   '^ -^  a 

•^   all  very  well    in   .  •  '^^  sv^-eetheart 

-"•.-»::;n\:rrt:::;;r:'-" 

-nient  for  the  local  to  pay  h,s  ho^'  ,  ,  :: 
-an  veo^  n,.,ch  or  ve^-  li.,|e.  Uutlu^  '""' 
comes  across  a  couple  of  st,f«  i  '  " 

a  biR  city    and  ,„    ,  '     "'"«  '''^'""''  '"■" 

'.^urtJeifTtrr.^^^^"-'^- 
--•--ayinr;:;;r;:rr::fr- 

^'  ^  "^-^  proud  enoueh  of  f'hari.„ 
'-•=  run  length  of  the. hire   iL.r,;:;-"'':-"' 
clo^o  hehind  and  carryin,  „,y  whi'  '.    ch IT'"' 
"■^  -n,.     ,  remcnher  an  „ld  n^.d^n  '  .  ' ;  J 


88 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


the  best  authority  on  such  matters — telling  me  that 
Charlie  had  a  very  caressing  way  of  carrying  a  cloak, 
as  if  it  were  a  sacred  thing.  I  have  thought  quite  a 
little  over  this,  and  I  believe  there's  something  in  it. 

I  cannot  say  I  was  sorry  when  I  heard  voices  in 
the  library  as  we  came  in  the  house.  And  that's  a 
bad  sign  when  a  girl's  in  love.  There  should  be  no 
such  music  to  a  love-lorn  pair  as  dead  silence  in  the 
library  when  they  come  home  through  the  dark. 
When  the  poet  sang  of  voices  of  the  night  I'm  sure 
he  meant  just  two. 

The  Presbytery  meeting  was  evidently  over,  for 
they  were  all  home,  Mr.  Furvell  among  them.  Now 
I  should  have  said  at  the  outset  that  Mr.  Furvell,  al- 
though he  was  our  pastor  and  much  beloved  at  that, 
was  really  quite  a  Puritan  of  a  man.  And  I  was 
sure,  as  soon  as  he  shook  hands  with  me  that  night, 
that  he  was  concerned  about  my  soul. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  ihe  play.  Miss  Helen?"  he  said, 
looking  as  solemnly  at  me  as  though  I  had  spent  the 
evening  where  Dives  was  when  he  asked  for  a  drop 
of  water  to  cool  his  tongue. 

"  No,"  said  I, "  it  was  a  fool  play,"  whereat  Mr. 
Furvell  looked  a  little  comforted. 

"  We  had  a  beautiful  service  at  the  Presbytery,"  he 
went  on,  his  solemnity  but  little  diluted  ;  "  the  Lord 
was  with  us.  Miss  Helen,"  with  an  intonation  that 


! 


'^'•'  OLORY  of  JHE;ii  STRENGTH       8, 
implied  a  monopoly,    ..  y...  u  ,,a...  ,,,„  .„„„ 

epiy  Whatever.,  was,  i,„.,„q„„eeva.vc,bu<  I 
remember  .„at  he  looked  a.  „,ei„..ead  or  Ins.Jj 
'.-r-a„dIfe,tali«,en.i„ga„gcr,ha.,„Au^ 

:;:r  ^''°""' "-  p-  -  <-  u..^  „«,„  jr 

heathen  I  wa=  qu.te  soon  enough,  I  thou^Ut,  w.thou. 
any  ass.stance  of  this  kind  from  Mr.  Fur..'.  ' 

conversation  sec„,ed  to  flag  a  httle  after  ,1,:;  and  it 
wasntvery,ong.mCharl.eandIs,ipped    ffj 

A  d  heT.  .    "'"■'  '""  "  '""'^"y  -  Charlie. 
And  he  hadn  t  go,  ntore  than  well  begun  upon  a  gen- 

e  .  cr,t,c,s™  of  Mr.  Laird  before  uncle  knocked  a, 
the  dour-uncle  wa.  a  very  caulious  man—  We're 
S-ng  to  have  prayers;  „,ll  you  and  Mr.  Giddens 
come  in  to  worship  ?■■ 

Charlie  gave  a  li,tle  gasp.    ..  W.Ve  at  our  devo- 
..ons  ngh,  now  ourselves,"  he  said,  so  low  that  uncle 
could  no,  hear.     Then  we  had  a  swift  little  debate 
'  "7  '°'  P^=>'^«'  ="<'  Charlie  said  he  believed  they 
had  brought  that  whole  Presbytery  together  just  to 
invert  me.     Which,  ,  retorted,  would  be  like'train- 

ote  «;      '""^       "'  ^"""'^^"  "^^^  °"  °-  "'"« 


ferS* 


90 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


Anyhow,  we  went  in — even  Charlie  couldn't  have 
done  anything;  el.se — and  the  Reverend  Gordon  Laird 
hud  the  Bible  in  his  hand. 

"  Uo  you  sing  ?  "  he  suddenly  enquired,  looking  up 
from  the  book. 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  my  Aunt  Agnes,  quite  amazed. 

"  Oh !  I  mean,  do  you  have  singing  at  family 
worship  ?  It's  a  very  comnjon  custom  in  Scotland — 
they  usually  go  together." 

Of  course  we  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  In 
fact,  family  worship  in  any  form  was  one  of  the 
dainties  we  kept  for  visitors — if  they  were  able  to 
help  themselves. 

So  Mr.  Laird  spoke  a  few  words  about  their  Scot- 
tish Psalmody — I  had  never  heard  the  term  before — 
and  he  said  there  were  no  hymns  to  touch  them,  for 
strength  and  grandeur.  I  consider  this  ept»ch- mak- 
ing, in  a  certain  sense ;  for  the  psalms  of  David  have 
been  the  songs  in  the  house  of  my  pilgrimage  lor 
long  years  now. 


Suddenly  uncle  asked  him  tu  sing  one  for  us. 


He 


seemed  riuitc  willing,  and  we  all  listened  eagcrl)  ;  ex- 
cept Cljarhc,  who  thought,  I  fancied,  thai  it  was  a 
waste  ui  precious  time. 

I  love  to  Ml  and  think  again  of  that  wonderful  e.\- 
peneiicc.  Uncle  was  there,  and  my  Aunt  Agnes, 
and    :ny    [jfecious   mother  ;  my   promised   husband, 


k 


The  GLOR  Y  of  THE/R  STRENGTH       9, 
too  was  of  the  little  company.     I  can  .ce  again  the 
look  of  cxpcctafon.  sur;.ri.e.  and  almost  wonder  as 
the  young  minister,  w.th  serious  m.cn.  sang  us  one  of 
the  psalms  of  his  native  land.     He  chose  the  eighty- 
nmth-I  know  them  nearly  all  by  nun.ber  now.    Our 
v.s.tor's  voice  was  not  so  cultured  a.  some  I  have 
heard,  but  it  was  clear  and  sweet,  and  his  ear  was 
true     and.  best  of  all.  his  whole  soul  seemed  to  be 
.n  the  great  words  as  they  rose  slowly  from  his  lips. 
The  words  are  so  noble  that  I  must  write  them  out. 

"  Oh  !  greatly  blessed  the  people  are 
The  joyful  sound  that  know- 
In  brightness  of  Thy  face,  oh,  Lord, 
They  ever  on  shall  go. 

"  They  in  Thy  name  shall  all  the  day 
Rejoice  exceedingl/ 
And  in  Thy  righteousness  shall  they 
Kxalted  be  on  high." 

So  ran  rhe  mighty  song.     But  I  think  we  felt  the 
^^randcur  of  it  n.ost  when  he  sang  the  next  two  lines  : 

"  ^'-••"'^e  the  glory  of  their  strength 
i^'h  only  stand  in  Thee," 

^vh.ch  impressed  me  then,  and  still  impresses  me  as 
the  most  majestic  union  of  words  I  ever  heard  in  any 
lorm  of  religious  song. 


93 


T//£    /i'T-TJC   GUEST 


"  That's  wonderful !  "  said  my  mother  as  the  psalm 
was  finished. 

"  Beautiful !  "  contributed  my  uncle ;  "  sounds  like 
it  ought  to  be  sung  by  a  race  of  giant  ," 

"  So  it  was,"  said  Mr.  L;iird.  "  The  mart\  rs  have 
sung  those  words — hundreds  of  tlitin.  Tint  psalm 
was  a  favourite  with  the  Covenanters." 

"  The  what  ?  "  interjected  Mr.  Giddcns.  "  The 
Covenanters,  did  you  say  ?     Who  were  they  ?  " 

"  The  Covenanters,"  replied  Mr.  I^ird.  "  And  1 
consider  that's  the  greatest  name  ever  given  to  a 
band  of  men." 

•'  Were  they  a  religious  sect  ?  "  asked  Charlie. 

"No,  sir — they  were  a  religious  army,"  answered 
Mr.  Laird.  "  And  I've  got  their  blood  in  my  veins. 
Some  of  my  ancestors  laid  down  their  lives  for  their 
faith — and  this  world  never  saw  an  aristocracy  like  to 
them."  His  checks  were  flushed,  his  whole  face 
animated  with  a  wonderful  light — and  he  looked 
really  beautiful.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression 
on  the  faces  round  mc  ;  the}*  didn't  know  what  to 
make  of  this  so  unfamiliar  kind  of  man. 

But  Charlie  was  not  through  with  the  subject  yet. 
"  Well,  that  kind  of  thing  may  lu.ve  suited  them,"  he- 
began  again,  "  and  there  certainly  is  a  kind  of 
strength  about  it.  But  I  don't  like  it  as  well  as  our 
church  hymns,"  he  continued,  smiling. 


i 


The  GLOR  Y  of  THEIR  STRENGTH        93 

"I  dida-t  think  you  woulu.'  replied  the  minister, 
not  smihng  at  all. 

Then  Mr.  Laird  took  the  B.ble  and  went  on  with 
wor.h.p.     :ie  first  read  a  bit  fron.  the  Scriptures, 
though  ,vhat  part  it  wa.  I  cannot  remember.     After 
that    he    prayed.      A   beautiful,  simple  prayer-I 
thought  .t  was  so  manly,  though  that's  a  strange  word 
to  apply  to  a  prayer.     But  he  never  did  think,  as  I 
came  to  know  well  enough  later  on.  that  God  cares 
to  have  us  abase  ourselves  just  for  the  sake  of  doing 
^o.     btrangely  enough,  the  only  one  thing  I  definitely 
remember  about  his  prayer  is  that  he  said :     -  Give 
us  a  good  nights  rest."  and  it  struck  n,e  a.s  a  beauti- 
fully simple  petition. 

There  .s  one  feature  of  that  evening's   -orship  that 
Lngers  with  me  very  vividly.     .    ftcr  we  knelt  down 
-Ins  cha,r  was  a  few  feet  from  .nine-Charlie  crept 
over  to  the  sofa  where  I  was  kneeling  and  bowed 
down  beside  me.     It  thrilled  me  so-perhaps  not  in 
terms  of  Charlie  Giddens  cxactly-but  it  was  the  first 
fme  I   ever  thought  of  love  and  prayer  going  to- 
k-ther.     And  I  recall  how  overpowenngly  itcameto 
me  that  there  could,  surely,  be  notlnng  more  sweet 
than  this,  that  two  who  loved  eaci,  other  should  pray 
together,  and  should  feel  that  even  death  could  never 
separate  them,  because  their  love  was  set  in  the  light 
of  the  Invisible.     Charlie  took  my  hand.  too.  and  I 


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94 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


rather  think  his  eyes  were  upeii — 1  know  his  face  was 
turned  to  mine — but  I  couldn't  be  sure  oi  this,  for  my 
own  were  tightly  eluded. 

I  went  outside  the  door  with  Charlie  after  he  had 
said  good-night  to  all  but  me  ;  and  I  do  not  think  the 
silent  night  ever  appeared  so  glorious  before.  There 
was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  shining  calml}-  <wer- 
head,  and  a  sweet  stillness,  fragrant  with  the  breath 
of  spring,  was  all  about  us.  I  could  hear  the  twitter- 
ing of  birds  in  the  magnoHa  tree,  and  wondered  if 
they  were  the  love-lorn  pair  I  had  seen  taking  shelter 
there. 

I  fancy  I  was  still  thinking  of  the  great  words  and 
the  great  thoughts  of  the  swelling  psalm,  but  Charlie 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  He  evidently 
didn't  want  anything  but  me.  And  his  voice  was  full 
of  tender  passion  as  he  began  and  pressed  his  suit 
again — right  away,  he  said,  it  must  be  right  away. 
And  he  rang  the  changes  a  little  on  the  yacht  and 
Europe-=-I  wished  so  much  he  hadn't  mentioned 
these,  for  I  felt,  in  a  kind  of  hungry  way,  that  they 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  case.  He  told  me 
how  much  he  loved  me,  and  how  empty  life  would  be 
without  me  at  his  side — bat  this  was  in  between,  and 
I  felt,  away  down  in  my  heart,  that  he  wasn't  putting 
things  in  their  proper  places.  But  he  put  his  aim 
about  mc,  and  kissed  me,  three  or  four  times,  I  think. 


■T"^  GLORY  of  7HEIR  STRENGTH        ,5 
"  '^""  "•=  S"  ='"-°-''.  -e'U  go  and  see  where  .ha. 

at  the  jest     liu,  i  jy„,  ,,,  ,,^  ^^^    _ 

-d  no   ngh.  ,0  resen.  ,.     Besides,  he  W  he*d 

l.=epo„.hehi,.,_hesaidsohtaseIf-a.,d.h:Jas 

/  na  Jookmg  a.  my  engagement  ring-,  it 

male  s. he. hole  nigh,  radian.,  doesn-.i.p'„i; 

>..chhek,ssedi.,a„dheldi..o,ny,ips.ha.I„;* 
do  .he  same.     I  couldn'.  help  glancing  proudly  af '. 
too,  for  ,.  „as  a  beau.y_a„d  n,o.her  said  no  gir  ol 
our  crcle  had  ever  had  one  so  valuable 

Then  Charlie  wen.  away  and  I  wen.  baek  in.o  .he 
pa  lour      They  were  all  .here  except  Mr.  Laird. 

Vdl,  Look  him  to  the  attic  myself,"  said  n,y 

he,    ntr'"         """^^^"'^"■"^'"^'--■'ow 
ne  went  on  over  it      T  ho^  ^^1J  t 

,  .  "•     ^  "ad  told  Lyn  to  krht  the  fir«> 

-d  ,t  really  looked  co^y  in  .he  dark  „hL  w    we;.' 

J        tne  eider.    C  .!  he  was  jus.  lovely  abouti.  ■• 
My  mo.her-s  mind  was  engrossed  wi.h  something 


96 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


else.  ••  Wasn't  that  mortifying  at  the  table,"  she  be- 
gan, "  about  his  having  been  a  shepherd,  I  mean — he 
doesn't  understand  our  way  of  looking  at  things 
here,  or  he'd  never  have  mentioned  it.  I  saw  Mr. 
Giddens  fairly  jump  in  his  chair." 

"  I  thought  it  was  lovely,"  I  broke  in  with  a 
vehemence  I  could  not  restrain  ;  "  I  don't  see  any 
disgrace  in  that.  I  think  it's  all  the  mo'e  to  his 
credit." 

"  Oh !  no,  of  course,  I  don't  mean  it's  any  dis- 
grace," my  mother  exclaimed,  "  but — it's  so  funny. 
It's  so  different  from  anything  we've  been  used  to." 

"  You're  right  there,"  said  my  uncle,  rising  and 
moving  towards  the  gas  jet,  for  he  was  sleepy. 
"  That's  the  truth  all  right— he's  different  enough  from 
what  we  usually  see.  I  think  he's  refreshing,  if  you 
ask  me.  But  he  had  better  go  slow  about  express- 
ing his  views  on  these  niggers— if  he  doesn't  want  to 
get  into  trouble.     That's  one  thing  sure." 

"I  wish  he  had  told  us  a  little  more  ibout  his 
folks,"  said  my  Aunt  Agnes,  yawning,  and  winding 
up  her  watch.  "  Did  you  notice  he  didn't  tell  us 
anything  about  his  father,  except  that  he  was  a 
shepherd— that  he  is  a  shepherd,"  she  revised,  "  for 
he's  still  living.  I  do  wonder  if  he's  engaged,"  she 
added,  placing  the  screen  in  front  of  the  fire  as  she 
spoke. 


■! 


'^"^  OLORY  Of  rHEIR  STRENGTH        „ 
;;  Of -ur3e.' said  I;. .certainly  he's  engaged." 

J^We„.ofcourse.Ido„'t-but.vhysl,ou.dn'.he 

and"!"^™'"'  """  "^"  ^Sainst  this  vety  easilv 
and  the  matter  stood  as  before  ^' 

«Z:;:^:;:;"'[/-'^'-d,  his  hand 

-Mr.Furveiigavr  ;  to  Ifr    1°""  "'""  ""''"'" 
--toni„^a:ej~;™-;;-''-h..it 

■»*-or„ing;.ashedepos::;,:„t^::r'' 

prn.pt,,  „„3sed  the  room  and  pic  J    L 

« ':::::r™'''r-""'^-*-.nmi,'d 

^°"  '^''^"'^<'  of  yourself?"  as  T 
stood  examining  the  missive  ' 

••  I  wanted  to  see  what  the  dd  country  stamp  is 

^er  in  r„  instant  ^^"^ ''" '°*'"«  — ^  ^'.ou,- 

"  It's  a  man's  handwriting,"  said  she. 
-"•'    '^^'d."  yes,  I  reckon  it  is" 
■■  And  it's  got  Virginia  spelled  with  two  n's  "  she 
added  sorrowfully.  '     ^ 

"  ^'°"  tlon't  mean  to  sav  sn  i  ■•  .    j 
■""ving  over  to  join  us.  ^'"d -"y  mother, 

"  llie  more  tlie  mernVr  ••  c-,-j 

enierner,    said  my  uncle; '« and  I'm 


98 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


going  to  put  out  the  gas,  if  it  had  a  do  en.  All 
aboard  for  the  upper  deck." 

Wherewith  we  all  moved  towards  the  stairs.  "  The 
last  I  saw  of  your  Gordon  Laird,"  said  my  aunt  to 
me  as  we  went  up  together,  "  he  was  standing  with 
his  face  hidden  in  those  roses." 

"  Oh  ! "  t,aid  I,  "  did  you  tell  him  who  it  was  took 
them  to  his  room  ?  " 

"  No,  never  thought  of  it." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  I — with  a  little  sigh. 


f 


VIII 
"OE^Lfms  H^rjH  THE  SAMAR.l^^S" 

THKRH.S3o„e.,,„s  lovely  .5„„u,..„„. 
'oveiyt^e.    Now  ,  ^  ,„a.  looks  ,L 

"  ^"^  f""^'' ""tence  when  one  reads  it 
over  after  having  written  i,  down     s„  T 

-cesarejike  that,  yon  t,nnk.,,e;rero:rr 

:■  U  in?::'"'  ^■"' ""«'"  -■"'  ^"-^^  >v 

--t.on.rep,ayi„,:r„a^r:r: 

whopper,    yon  say,  ■■  Tve  go.  this  ,i™e..  "-trt  h  w 

Yet  I  venture  to  repeat,  as  Mr.  Fnrvell  savs  in  .,-. 
sermons,  1  ventnre  to  repeat  ■  tl,  '""^"" '"' 
lovelv  aho„t  I      •  P"'-    "'""   somctimm 

■ovejy  about  having  a  lovely  time     In  .i  •    r 

tliaf  it  can  nev^r  h    .  ,  """'  '  '"=•'"• 

will  ?  ^''"  "^y  f™"'  ^'«'-     There 

heart   tin  .  "   empiiness    of 

"rart,  till  you  quite  forsret  that  ^,-„, 

But,  even  so  all  »!,,=  ^ ""  """  S'^''- 

hou    or  1  ''"  """=■■ "''"  >'°"  "'■  "«'  one 

hour,  o    day,  or  month  of  pleasure  unalloyed 

Mr.  Uird  used  to  say  scathing  ,,k,, his, n  the 

99 


100 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


long  happy  days  that  followed  his  arrival.  It  had 
not  been  hard  to  persuade  him  to  prolong  his  visit. 
Fortunately  for  us,  his  friend  Dr.  Paine  was  engaged 
to  go,  the  very  next  week,  to  the  meeting  of  the 
General  Assembly  at  Dallas ;  so  it  was  arranged  Mr. 
Laird  should  tarry  with  us  till  he  returned,  perhaps 
longer— for  I  think  it  was  about  decided  that  he  was 
to  take  up  mission  work  in  Canada. 

When  I  say  those  days  were  happy,  I  mean  in  a 
perfectly  sane  and  unfeverish  kind  of  way,  of  course, 
with  nc  thought  of — of  what  every  woman  looks  for 
in  every  book  she  reads.  That  is,  no  calm  and 
courageous  thought  of  it ;  although  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  something  of  that,  more  or  less  diluted,  lies  back 
of  all  real  joy.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Laird  said  that  very 
thing,  and  more  than  once,  about  the  unloseableness 
of  one  hour  or  day  of  real  happiness.  Whatever  has 
been  before  of  pain,  or  whatever  may  be  ahead  of 
sorrow,  he  said,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  can 
ever  make  pure  gladness  as  if  it  had  never  been.  It 
belongs  to  you  forever,  said  the  Reverend  Gordon 
Laird. 

I  should  have  known  that  I  had  no  right  to  be  so 
happy.  For  one  thing,  Charlie  had  gone  back  to 
Savannah,  and  I  should  have  been  miserable  over 
that,  if  conscience  had  been  half  as  faithful  as  it  should 
have  been.     Then,  besides,  he  was  waiting  for  my 


I 


u 


I 

i 

/ 


d«..io„  about  Europe  a„d  the  yach.-and  I ,     , 
^l.'.m  to  I,appi„ess  „H  ,|,a,  was  s J    T     t  ™ 

;^>M.a..c.u.a5„u.l:        tl./"'''T' 
from  it_a„d  so  I  slmuU  i        J         ''■m-vcry  far 

K">  I  wa.„,         '        '  ""=  ^="  0""'  "rc.cl.ed. 

said  a„d  done  aJ„-  ""■     ^""  a"  i" 

«'  "s,  tliat  they  have  H  I  """'  ''•■■"'«™tic 

And  Mr   La  rd  d7        "  ""'  '"'*  ^""^  "'^  =ea. 

one  .hiugah     „■    1:"""  ^7"^-"^  >-PPy-     For 
*"  '■"*^  weather  was  delinhffMi  ^  j 

.^ftcr  morning  found  him  and  m      t h  '     '  "°"'"« 
->^=  to  ac,  as  cicerone-walkl!^         "'''  "°  °"= 

haunts  thar  ^      "'""'"S  ^1'°"'  the 

naunts  that  surrounded  our  quiet  lifH     •. 

and  the  yellow  jasmine  were  LI    h  /      "'"'"' 
sand  trees     S^„..-  S-thered  from  a  thou- 


again. 


used  to 


get  them  to  sing  ,t  again 


and 


i02 


7 HE   JIJIC   GUUST 


Indeed,  everything  cunnect'jd  with  negroes  seemed 
to  have  a  strange  fascination  for  Mr.  Laird.  This 
perplexed  nic  considerably,  and  niortitied  me  not  a 
hltle  too.  Of  course,  having  spent  all  my  life  among 
them,  they  were  a  commonplace  lot  to  me,  and  I 
regarded  them  with  the  kmdly  disdain  which  marks 
every  Southern  girl's  attitude  to  tiie  negro  race.  Hut 
Mr.  Laird  seemed  to  find  a  new  vein  in  them — and, 
besides,  he  wr^  so  intensely  human  and  so  tremen- 
dously mterested  in  all  human  things.  Ikit  he  didn't 
know  how  volcanic  was  the  ground  he  walked  on 
when  he  came  in»o  contact  with  the  darkies;  and 
I  may  as  well  go  aside  here  to  tell  how  this 
provided  the  only  jarring  note  in  all  that  memorable 
visit. 

One  day  we  were  all  on  the  piazza,  engaged  in  tlu 
most  delightful  occupation  of  waiting  for  dinner  to 
be  announced,  catching  savoury  whiffs  the  while  that 
betokened  its  near  approach.  All  of  a  sudden  a 
coal-black  negress  came  through  the  back  gate  and 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  porch  steps.  Beside  her 
stood  a  little  curly-headed  boy,  about  three  years  of 
age,  clinging  to  his  mother's  hand.  She  had  been 
asking  for  something  at  the  kitchen  door,  I  think — 
they  were  always  asking  for  something,  those  darkies. 
Of  course  we  simply  looked  at  her;  I  don't  believe 
uncle   quite  did   that — I   think  he   pretended  to  be 


t 


'  i:&^ 


m^^Mmm. 


f  "  "••■■•■-'■■"■>  •'  "II  -U..-  S.tMAKn.,SS"    ,oj 

\               ''"'''"-'  '  '"•■"•'"'I'"-     ""'  'M.-.  Laird,  in  ,,„  ,■„,„„, 
1  -c  way,  wen,  n„, ,  „„  ^„^  "  ^^ 

■ng  to  ll,c  ,v„,nan.     It  ivas  rt-  ,llv  . 

how  flattered  .he  seemed  2^t  f 'i'""""-' '"  "" 

.•„    f  II  fa>  "^'^'1  as  he  was  aiifl 

'n   full    m.nisterial   drcs.s_Mr    Lair.l    .r^     u 

rrtn,r=^^'- "--"'■■■"«  or  t,,ats„^ 

"  ,  '  "  '""=  "■•■«"  'l"S  I'i.  hands  into  Mr  Laird's 
n.  ciy  loefa,  „,,„e  his  A„„„.Sax„„  steed  n,td  an 
exhibition  of  himself  fr^ii^^- 

the  flower  bed     The       m '^^  """  "'  '"''"  =™"-«' 
wer  bed.     The  ,„other  grinned  with  ddight  in 

"  'Z  "■''  '  '"-'■  f-"y  -addened  nnele. 
When  Mr   Laird  finally  ,„„„„,,         . 

Ja,r.unc,ehad,„iteat™oeo„tro,h„,hLe,r: 

"1^0  you  know  who  that  child  is  sir>"co-^ 
"-..keeping  his  voiee  under  fine  e::;:,.    '''""' 
No      s„.,   J,       .aird,  innoeent  or  everything; 
™      „e  er  saw  hi„,  before_do  you.  .Mr.  Lundy  ?' 

:  ""t     '^'^-   ■'■-'"•<'.  ^«"    all    „nco„seio„s,  „,eek,v 

and  fi.x  „y  ha,r  before  di„„er,"  he  said,  runnin,,  his 
fingers  through  the  startled  thatch 

unde  sternly,  oblivious  to  n.uttered  appeals  from 


m^m 


104 


////;    /if  TIC    GUliST 


b'lth   Aunt  Agnes  and  my  nuitljcr;  "  I'll  tell  you 
who  tli.it  child  is,  sir — it's  a  coon." 

•'  What  ?  "  said  Mr.  Laird,  bcpiniiint,'  to  apprehend, 

"  It's  a  coon,  sir,"  my  uncle  repeated,  as  sternl)'  as 
if  he  had  been  defining  some  cub  of  the  jungle  ,  "  it's 
a  nigger  coon." 

"  Weil  ?  "  said  Mr.  Laird,  looking  uncle  very  stead- 
fastly in  the  eye. 

"  Well,"  echoed  my  uncle,  "  yes,  well."  Then  he 
paused,  but  soon  gathered  fresh  strength.  "And  I 
hardly  need  to  tell  you,  I  presume,  sir,  that  it's  not 
our  custom  to  fondle  darkey  babies — they're  sup- 
posed to  soil  white  hands,  sir,"  he  declared,  waxing 
warm. 

Mr.  Laird  looked  innocently  at  his  own.  "  It 
hasn't  injured  mine  any,  Mr.  Lundy,"  he  said  simply. 
"  i  don't  quite  understand  what  caused  the — the 
panic,"  he  concluded,  still  looking  very  steadfastly  at 
uncle. 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  plainly 
tliat  such  an  action  as  yours  would  be  considered 
quite — quite  improper,  to  say  the  least.  We  don't 
take  familial  .'ties  ''      that  with  negro  children." 

"  It's  a  harmless  enough  looking  little  chap,"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Laird,  nodding  towards  the  receding 
joungster.  He  was  toddling  along  beside  his 
mother,  his  hand  in  hers. 


♦ 


4 


■■Oi^^UXaS  IVITH  Uc  SAMAHIIANS-     ,05 

-v„  way  of  doi„g  „„,  And  you  Uu„,  „„,,;;,  ^^ 
.l.e  s,.ua..o„,  .r,  you  do,,',  .-.dcrs.and  .he  ,i,uaul  ' 
p.ca.cd    Uncc    Henry,   c.ployin,    .„;::; 

-M.r-    .urpnse    ■    something  ,hc  o.hcr  day      V„u 

en,c„,bcrwhenSman.vood,,he,cc.„rcfLco, 
ouret,,,3copa,  Church,  called  ,0  as.  „..,.., „,X 

o  "-  I'-k  door,  because  he  was  a  preacher  a'd 
dressed  up  like  a  bishop." 
Mr.  I^ird  nodded. 

••  Well,  sir,  if  he  was  ,he  Archbishop  of  .-,„,„. 
bury    or  ,he  Pope  of  Ron,e-.he  back  do     ,   " 

s'   r    xle       -r"  '""'^  -  "-■'  "><=  -lour  of  hi 
ta,.     There  ,sn',  a  self-respecting  white  family  i„ 

«.ec,tybu,  would  shut  the  front  door  in  his  Le 
Vou  understand,  sir  i>" 

:  '  ''""■'  "'ink  any  more  of  thera  for  that."  was  the 
quiet  retort  of  Mr.  Laird. 

sir"  I'T., "'"''  '"■  '"■    '^'•'''■"  '''""  >•<»"•  contempt 
s   -but  they  won't  let  a  pack  or  negroes  „.alk  all  o>' 
.n_  my  nncles  gorge  rising  again.     "Andlhope 
o  God  none  of  our  neighbours  .saw  y,  a  on  the  Jl 

iop  round  our  back  yard  w.th  a  negrJ  bra.  ast^oi 


^m. 


io6 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


you.  You'd  be  finished  here,  sir,  if  they  did.  Just 
before  that  weiich  came  in  here  with  her  young  'un, 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  I  met  Mr.  Furvell,  and 
he  asked  me  to  give  you  an  invitation,  for  him,  to 
preach  in  our  church  next  Sunday.  Well,  sir,  I  hope 
it'll  stand  all  right — but  if  it  got  round  town  that  you 
made  a  saddle-horse  out  of  yourself  for  a  nigger  whelp 
to  ride,  you'd  have  the  church  to  yourself,  sir ;  I 
reckon  a  few  old  women  might  go  to  hear  you,  but 
you  wouldn't  have  enough  men  there  to  take  up  the 
collection." 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Lundy,"  said  the  minister,  with 
amazing  quietness. 

"  Can't  do  what  ? "  demanded  uncle. 

"  Can't  preach  for  your  friend,"  replied  the  other. 
"  I'm  engaged." 

"  Engaged  for  what  ?  " 

"  Engaged  to  preach." 

"  Where  ?  "  said  uncle,  quite  forgetful  now  of  the 
debate.  I  think  the  same  question  came  in  the  same 
breath  from  my  mother  and  Aunt  Agnes. 

•'  In  the  Coloured  Methodist  Church— I  think  they 
call  it  Zion,"  Mr.  Laird  informed  us  calmly.  "  I  was 
there  the  other  day  at  a  funeral — pretty  boisterous 
funeral  it  was,  too—and  the  preacher  got  hold  of  me. 
They  took  up  a  collection,"  Mr.  Laird  lau.q'.icd, "  and 
that  was  how  they  located  me.     I  didn't  have  any- 


* 


\ 


w^rr-.^.. 


w^^^^m 


I 


I 


thing  but  a  3hilli„g_a  quarter,  you  call  it     Wd,  „, 
invited  me  to  nr^r,^!,  r      u-  vVeiJ,  he 

agreed      S„T        tt         ""  "'^'  ^^'"^="''.  and  I 

■  "uatirsr.^ ""'""'- ^'^- ^"-'••■ 

Sc:I:ar-'-""''^-''---"-P--  .he  stoical 
••  Good  God  ..  ■■  said  my  Uncle  Henry,     My  „„cle 

-.her;..Mr.Uirdca„eas,,;'cH''a:;,i:C':: 
can  get  released  fro™  his  engagement.    He^;^' 
know  ,ve  wanted  him  in  our  church  " 
"'■■"  "°'  =™'=d,  ma'am."  puffed  my  uncle-  -I 

Ves,  yes.    broke  ,n  my  Aunt  Agnes.  -  of  couz^e 

"-^r::tttrT'°--- -- 

preacher  that—!"  "'""    '"   'hat   coloured 

Southern  lair  ,Vlrr'^  ™   "'^  -'^  °f 
tl'afs  the  end  of  it      ..f  "'   ""■  P"""--"'' 

whatever  they  ca,   it  '™      '"  ^'""  ^''"""— 

I  „  ^      ,,  "''■'"  Sabbath  morning     If  the 

'::  r^^^-'^''' "''■"■'- •^p--''- us '^ 

T'  '"P-^^fl"""'   P.ety.     I   didn't  know  then  that 
scotch  people  never  take  any  chances. 


io8 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


"  Biit  you  don't  realize  what  you're  doing,  sir,"  re- 
monstritcd  my  uncle ;  "  you  fail  to  realize " 

"  I'm  doing  what  no  man  will  prevent,"  broke  in 
our  visitor,  and  his  eye  was  flashing  like  the  diamond 
on  my  finger ;  "  I'm  going  to  preach  the  Gospel  to 
them,  if  1  get  the  chance." 

"  That's  all  right,"  began  my  uncle,  "  that's  all  right 
in  its  way,  but " 

"  What's  all  right  in  its  way  ? "  demanded  the 
Reverend  Gordon  Laird,  his  voice  quite  resound- 
.'ng  now. 

"  That's  all  right — that  Gospel  business,"  ex- 
plained my  uncle,  evidently  a  little  at  a  loss.  "  The 
Gospel's  all  right  in  its  place,  but " 

"  Thank  you,"  gave  back  Mr.  Laird,  his  strong 
Scotch   lip  trembling,  "you're  very  magnanimous, 

* 

sir." 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  you're  exposing  your- 
self to,"  pursued  my  uncle,  apparently  deaf  to  Mr. 
Laird's  retort.  "  They'll  make  a  fool  of  you  in  the 
pulpit,  sir.  I'll  tell  you  something,  sir.  Your  sermon 
will  be  wasted.  We  had  a  man  here  once — a  white 
man — an  evangelist,  who  expected  to  move  on  an\- 
how.  And  he  tried  this  little  trick  of  yours— he 
preached  to  those  coons  in  their  own  church  one  day. 
And  I  heard  later  how  they  made  a  fool  of  him.  He 
preached  about  folks  having  to  use  the  means.     Good 


\ 


"DEALINGS  H^ITH  Ue  SAMARITAN,-    ,09 

-r,no„,  too,  sir.     But   he  ua.    „o  .00,,.,.   .:,,„,„. 

an  t  ,c.  „i«g„  preacher  got  u,  aft.-  h,n._a„u  he 

tl.un  a  nbald  yarn,  s,r,  right  in  the  church;  .aid  he 
and  h,.  ten-year-old  brother  we,c  in  bed  once  al 

■.e>- heard  their  mother  telling  their  father      r. 
dev,ln,e„.  they'd  been  up  to;  and  the  father  said  hd 
g-p.ta„.3  when  he  had  finished  his  snpper.     W  ,1 
tl-  -ggcr  preacher  went  on  .0  say  he  go.  up  .0  pray' 
-bu,  h.s  orother-his  brother  believed  in  Lng  the 
means    and  so  he  said  he  wouldn't  pray,  but  he'd  g^ 

tLsr'  T"""°"-  That's  what  he  told 
them  s,r_an  .ndecent  tale-and  the  white  preacher 
had  to  s,t  and  hear  it,"  concluded  my  uLe  h" 
cheeks  burning  with  indignation 

.raL '''laid'vf''^  '":  ""'  ''™"'"  ^  "'^'-  '°  "'- 
trate,     a,d  Mr.  La,rd  stolidly;.,  m  dose  the  service 

"-.en  I',n  through."     Then  he  laughed 

"Vou're  trifling  with   me,  sir,"  said  my  Uncle 

Henry  chokingly,  rising  as  he  spoke.     I  'aw  t  e 

J.ck  pallor  come  .0  the  cheek  of  nry  Aunt  C 
-for  my  mother,  she  was  fairly  trembling.     As     ; 
"'e->vell,  I  was  terrified. 

Mr" tird  1'"'  ""^  '  """'^"^  """S  -C"-ed. 

ment  n        '  "™  '°  """"  "^  "^'^'^  --e- 

"ent   at   all.     Indeed,   he   was   no.   looking   in  his 

^•— n.  but  sat  gazing  intently  out  touards  tl.e 


no 


THE   A  J -TIC   GUEST 


road  that  ran  down  to  the  river  and  the  bridge.  In- 
voluntarily  my  eyes  followed  his,  and  a  monnent 
sufficed  to  reveal  the  object  of  his  interest.  For 
down  the  road  towards  us  there  crept  a  fragile 
figure,  swaying  unsteadily,  overborne  with  weakness 
and  her  heavy  load.  This  too  was  a  negro  woman, 
but  cast  in  finer  mould  than  the  stalwart  black  who 
had  disappeared  from  view.  The  one  who  had 
just  hove  in  sight,  as  I  could  see  even  at  that  dis- 
tance, was  a  comely  creature,  more  white  than  black, 
but  yet  bearing  the  fatal  hue. 

She  was  heavy  laden,  as  I  have  implied.  One 
arm  bore  a  great  bundle  enclosed  in  a  white  sheet — 
laundry,  doubtless — while  on  the  other  she  carried  a 
pl'.;::-!p  and  complacent  infant,  crowing  as  it  came, 
in  that  fine  oblivion  of  weight  which  marks  the 
procession  of  the  heaviest  babies  everywhere.  The 
young  mother  was  pressing  towards  the  river ;  a 
rusty  skiff  lay  beside  the  bridge,  in  which,  no  doubt, 
she  was  to  make  her  way  to  the  negro  settlement 
on  the  farther  shore.  She  seemed  ready  to  faint 
from  the  fatigue  of  her  double  burden,  yet  she 
pressed  on  with  almost  rapid  steps,  as  if  she  must 
keep  up  till  she  reached  the  boat. 

It  was  this  tliat  had  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Lair  1,  so  rapt  in  observance  that  he  evidently  did 
not  mark   my   uncle's   movements.     For  the  latter 


irtlBFT  WW 


"  "^-^iW^  i^lTH  The  SAMARITANS"     , , , 

J-d  hardly  ri.c„  before  our  vis,tor  .p„u,.  ,„,ek!y  to 

h.  ,ee,     I  caa  see  l.in,   „„,,  j,,,  ,.,;,  ^ack-robed 

gurc,  w,th  h,gh  brou.  and  aubun,  I,ai._.„j  strode 

b  ought  h.m   alongside   of  the   exhausted   „egre« 
whose  white  eyes  could  be  seen  wearily  surveyi.,: 
.m,  as  he  approached.     Without  a  word  he  seized 
buth  burdens  fron,  her  arn,s,   the  baby  held  high 
aloft   as   he  led   the   way  down  to  the  boat      The 
mother  straightened  herself  and  followed  closely  a. 
.f  she  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life_it  was  noVall 
due  to  the  burdens  she  had  lost,  I'm  sure-and  the 
heavy  baby  cr.wed  with   delight  at  this  i„,provcd 
^tyle  of  locomotion.     When,  Io_„„„,.^&y,  a,,^  , 
as  I  learned  in  Virgil_this  second  pickaninny,  with 
>l.at  tonsonal  instinct  which  seems  to  mark  the  race 
P".nged  its  pudgy  fingers  where  those  of  its  pred-' 
-essor  had  held  high  revel  one  brief  half  hour 
agone,   squealing   for  very  joy   as   it   clutched  the 
auburn  mane  of  the  Reverend  Gordon  Laird 
••  Don't  that  beat  the-the  Dutch  ?  "  muttered  my 
-le    Henry   from   the   porch,   gazing   at  the  taU 
"d  supple  form,  the  now  laughing  and  half  boyish 
K.ce.  as  our  guest  strode  on  towards  the  river,  the 
baoy  and  the  bale  like  fea.he.  in  his  arms.    A 
-„y  smile  was   on  uncle's  face,  half  of  contempt, 
-If  of  ,dn„ra.ion.     .■  Those   two   brats   both   into 


112 


THE   A'TllC   GUEST 


his  hair!"  he  murmured  to  himself— "  and  I  sure 
enough  got  into  his  wool,"  as  the  grin  deepened  on 

his  face. 

He  stood  gazing.  Then,  recalling  his  sacred 
principles,  he  broke  out  anew :  "  Good  heavens, 
he's  going  over  to  Slabtown  with  her,"  for  our  un- 
daunted guest  had  by  this  time  landed  the  bale  in 
the  bow  of  the  skifif.  Still  holding  the  baby  high, 
he  took  the  woman's  hand  and  helped  her  over  the 
gunwale  into  the  boat.  A  moment  later  we  could 
see  his  shirt-sleeves  glistening  in  the  sun,  he  himself 
seated  in  the  middle  of  the  skiff,  starting  to  pull 
vigorously  for  the  other  shore. 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  my  uncle  between  his  teeth  ; 
"  he's  chosen  his  company  and  he  can  have  it.  By 
heavens,"  he  went  en  hotly,  "  I  was  never  so  in- 
sulted in  my  life.  What  the— the  dickens  kind  of 
a  man  is  this  Scotchman  anyhow  ?— I've  seen  men 
shot    for    less     than    this.     I    remember    once    in 

Texas 

"  But,  Henry,"  ventured  my  Aunt  Agnes,  "  you 
shouldn't  be  so  hard  on  him— he  doesn't  understand 

our " 

"  Then  why  the  devil  doesn't  he  keep  his  mouth 
shut  ?  "  snorted  my  uncle ;  "  comin'  down  here- 
like  those  infernal  Yankees — an'  tryin'  to  teach  us 
how  to  run  our  niggers.     I've  seen  men  reach  for 


their  Lip  p„.u,^  fo,  ,,3,. ,  ,|,^,_„  ^ 

glarms  louiiU  tlie  circle.  ' 

...hi^'n";  '7'  "'"''•■  "'"    "-^  ">»">"  gently 
"  that  1  do,  Henry.     You're  „„.  „,ucl,  of  an  aLs.n 

hZLr      "■     ^-■■'-'^'"'-■">eipad„,ir,„: 
nis  pluck,  can  you,  now  ?  " 

"  He's  too p|,,ky,..  ^„„^^^j 

gaz,ng  at  the  now  distant  boat.     Then  followed  a 

season  Of  ca„„,  broken  only  by  the  soft  vo,ces  of 
my  aunt  and  mother  as  they  tried  to  pour  o.l  on  the 
troubled  waters. 

vo'ur^"'  J'",''"  "'""  ^'^  '     ^^''^  y°-  °P"'-n  of 
your  Gordon  La,rd_„d  his  nigger  friends?  "  uncle 

suddenly    e^anded,  turning  on  .e  as  stern  an  eye 
.  d.r  Old  nncle  ecu.  ever  treat  me  to.     .had  n^: 

"Do  you  want  to  know?  "said  I,  straightening 

up. 

^^..  That's  what  I  asked  you  for_what  makes  you 
••  I  don't  know.     But  I  think  he's  glorious-just 
And   I  don  t  care  who  knows  it,"  I  added.     I  be- 

eyes  nashu,g.     -And  you  were  horrid  to  him"  I 
cried,  my  voice  trembling. 
••  Helen,"  my  mother  broke  in  reproachfully,  -you 


,14  THE   ATTIC    GUEST 

forget  /ourself,  Helen.     And  do  you  know  you're 
taking  up  with  a  stranger,  against  your  uncle  ? " 

But  the  latter  didn't  seem  to  hear  what  my  mother 
said.  He  was  staring  at  me  in  awaytii.it  let  mc 
know  the  battle  was  won.  He  was  a  true  South- 
erner, was  uncle,  and  if  anything  in  the  world  ap- 
pealed to  him,  It  was  courage.  Yet  he  had  by  no 
means  surrendered. 

"Then  you  can  meet  him  when  he  comes  back," 
he  said  slowly  in  a  minute,  nodding  towards  the 
river ;  "  you  can  meet  him  and  say  good-bye  for  the 
rest  of  us.  You'll  make  our  farewells  to  him,  you 
see.  And  tell  him  the  world  is  wide— you  can  re- 
member that,  can't  you,  Helen  ?  " 

I  smiled  up  into  uncle's  face.  "  I  won't  say  good- 
bye for  anybody  but  Helen  Randall,"  I  replied, 
speaking  just  as  slowly  as  he  had  done,  "  but  I'll  do 
that— if  I  have  to.  And  I'll  tell  him— I'll  tell  him," 
I  repeated,  gazing  down  the  sunlit  river  towards  the 
sea,  •'  that  the  world  isn't  so  wide  after  all."  And  I 
know  not  why,  but  a  strange  thrill  swept  over  me 
from  head  to  foot ;  for  the  day  was  beautiful,  and  the 
fleecy  clouds  were  overhead,  and  the  air  was  laden 
with  the  sweet  breath  of  flowers,  and  God's  sunlight 
was  on  the  river— and  the  river  flowed  on  in  silence 

to  the  sea. 

Uncle  Henry  tunned  uway  and  presently  began  a 


/ 


i 


\ 


> 


; 


"DEALINGS  IVITH  n,  c^.^>„ 

"  ''"SAMARITANS-     ,„ 

littk  pace  up  and  do,vn  the  Diaz,;,      P 

storm  could  s„„  be  heard     ..,",,   "f"!"'^  "^  "■' 

■'-c'-aceasa.s.eauttcanie  "  ''"^P^'-"- 
-hen  our  guests  turn  nurse  for  dirt  ^  "  """• 
a"i^'s  .00  sma„  for  „,„,  ^l"!  'j  ^  -— ». 
-crossed  the  porch's  sounding  floo"        """"  """ 

^-watchmgl/.:  :r;--oo._had 
of  the  long  bridce  it,"  '^'"'' """J  «  the  end 
--.near,^:    r.:::;;7:;' '<>"«- .-i.e 

■■"B  %ure,  all  in  black  a.atr  "^  ""  ■"°^- 

«'  -  coming  back  afrT    ""  "'""'"^  ^"=^'- 
owners.  '■  '=^""6  the  skiff  to  its 

Aunt  Agnes  took  advantarr,.  nf     , 
uocle's  part.    ..  Well  "  „,       '\     '  '  '°"S  sile..ce  on 

dinner  served-  w/cLt       •''■"'  «"^^^  ''"  "^"er 

•■Thafs.hit    say.arr'"'"^"'' 
J-'  -  well  go  on    OT    T   "^  """""^  ■  "  "^  "^^ 
-Snihcantly  '  ''  '"•"  ="^'»>V  she  added 

"What?"  said  my  Uncle  H. 
Md  looking  at  us.  ■^'  ""■"'"S  ™und 

••-'dLbe.rtotrr:'"-''-^''-'. 

-erything,  y„u  k„o,f !  ::7:"'7'--     Considenng 

U"cle  stopped  still',  .'""'^"'=^'^'e''ed. 
PPed  st,ll  and  straigi.tenej  himself  up 


Ii6 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


"  There'll  be  no  dinner  till  he  conies,"  he  said  firmly, 
"  if  it's  an  hour.  I  hope  I  don't  toryet  what's  due  to 
.->  guest,"  as  he  looked  gravely  round  the  circle,  "  and 
especially  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land."  This  was 
said  with  the  air  of  a  king  and  a  very  noble  king  at 
that. 

"  Call  Lyn,"  he  said  suddenly  to  me. 

I  did  so.  "  Where  are  those  niggers  anyhow  ?  " 
he  asked  impatiently  as  he  waited  for  her  to  appear. 
"  I  reckon  tlicy've  all  been  watching  the  procession," 
jerking  his  thumb  towards  the  river.  "  Oh,  here  she 
is,"  as  the  sable  attendant  pattered  onto  the  porch. 
"  Lyn,  make  me  a  mint-julep — make  it  good." 

"  Yes,  sah  ! "  said  the  vanishing  servant. 

"  ■  .yn !     Oh,  Lyn,"  he  called  again  in  an  instant. 

"  Yes,  sah  ;  heah  I  is,  sah  !  " 

"  Make  two  mint-juleps — and  make  them  both 
good." 


IX 


t 


Loyes  TUTORSHIP 


i".i.  our  hear  c::j':r""'''"'^ «"'■"■ 

was  trying  ,„  |,Ve  ^p  ,„  ;,      ,  fl^^J^f^,  S'  '-"''  ' 

-retimes;  and  I  of..„  L'    ,o   '      '"'"'"■"'"S- 
verv  «m.  '°  '""'■  ^'«'ng  in  the 

very  same  room  with  Mr.  Uird  the  while   », 
"•"n  httle  desk  in  the  corner      Tl  ,  "^ 

one  of  Chariic's  ChH«  '  "'''^  '"<'  """n 

Charlie.  ,ette:i„r™:r'""-  ^"^  '  "^^Pt 
•'■ad  so  often  been  ll  '^  /  ""  '"  ""  '"P'  ^"^  ' 
to  it  he,.e:f  tin, T  !  "'°'"  "  "'^'  ">°«'er  saw 
"Hereth    wllr'"""^"^^'>"-''=''."<new 

'■"-ry  door      rr     !,  7™  '"=  '-'^^  ^'>°-  '"' 
-  a  '^"erold^ha!,  ar'     .   "'"'  ""^'"  '"  "^^  " 

chain-and      ne  -e  VoJd  h  ""'  ""' '  """  '  "="  "" 
--ahoutmr    ::;:;- '^'".s  con. 

his  letters  of  .^  .  ^^*^''  ^'^"ced  at 

''^-"  .nd  mother 


lis 


THE   AT71C   GUEST 


would  suggest  u  word  here  and  ihcre,  a  little  tcnucrer 
tlian   the  ori^'inal,  and   I  would  stick  them  in  like 
plums  in  a  pudding;.     Indeed— I  may  as  well  tell  it— 
muther  rewrote  a  part  of  the  one  in  which  I  kind  uf 
finally  renounced  any  inmiediate  prospect  of  Kurope 
ajid  the  yacht.     She  said  no  member  of  our  family 
had  ever  bi:i:n  so  gifted  with  the  pen  as  I— but  that 
I  was  a  little  astray  on  the  facts.     S.)  she  Pxed  my 
letter  in  a  way  to  prevent  it  being  very  final— for  she 
said  if  it  was  ordained  that  I  should  go  even  yet,  it 
would  be  wrong  to  make  it  impossible.     I  fancied  at 
the  time  that  this  was  a  little  like  lending  omi.,po- 
tence  a  hand— but  mother  was  an  old-time  Calvinist, 
especially  on  the  subject  of  me  and  Charlie,   so  I 
presumed  it  must  be  all  right  to  have  it  as  she  said. 

I  don't  think  any  of  them,  and  mother  least  of  all, 
ever  fancied  that  Mr.  Laird  had  the  remotest  connec- . 
tion  with  my  engagement  to  Charlie.  For  he  was  a 
minister — and  that  itself  would  be  supposed  to  settle 
it  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  Resides,  he  was  a  min- 
ister without  a  church,  a  kind  of  free  lance  on  a  holi- 
day. Then,  too,  we  knew  he  was  poor;  he  never 
said  so,  but  there  are  always  certain  signs ;  and  he 
took  great  care  M  hi-  clocues,  and  seemed  very  cau- 
tious about  money,  except  when  he  came  across 
some  one  who  was  very  poor.  And  I'm  sure  we  all 
remembered,  though  we  almost  never  spoke  of  it, 


^■Z.JSW 


LOI^E  S    TUTOKSniP  „, 

.ha.ho),adb.c.„a..,ci,„crU,and,l,a.,,i.fa,I,cr«.« 
sl.ll  l..,,,,,^.  ,|,,,p  „„  „,^.  ,„„^  ^^  sca.la„d-i,  never 

"■•'■■";:'""■•■,■• '- '""-bi,,..  refer  to  ,l,i,,wl,ic 

w-.- all  thought  very  stran^^c. 

The,,  o„  the  other  hand,  „.e  had,,',  the  slights, 
reason  for  a  lo„,  t.„,e  at  leas,_to  think  he  cared  a 
""Ble  .l,,ng  for  .„e.     Indeed,  I   .as  just  a  1  ttl 

P.qued  about  this;  „„  evening  I  took  some  fresl 
Ws  to  his  roon,  in  the  attic,  and  his  diary  wa! 
lyng  open  on  the  table.     1  don',  kno,v  ,vl,y..I  have 
no  excuses  ,0  make  a,  all-bu,  n,y  eye  fell  on  ,he 

en.ryfor,hetadayor,>vol,ehadbee„wi,hus 
I  only  glanced  at  i._a„y  g,-,,  ,,„„,j  ,  ,„, 

'vl.a,  he  said  abou.  us.  And  I  found  references  o" 
uncle,  and  my  mother,  and  Au,.,  Ag„es_.ven  to 
I-yn  and  Moses  more  than  once-but  no,  a  single 
"ord  about  me.  I  didn't  care  a  s,raw_only  I  had  a 
good  m,„d  ,o  .ake  the  violets  down  s,ai„  wi,h  me 
aga,n.     Ku,  I  didn't. 

I  l,ave  always  fancied  I  would  have  been  a  good 
Jeal  more  interested  if  ,  had  thought  he  was  en- 

SBcd^     WIsoo„made„pmy,ni„dhewasn't,al. 
".ough   I  had   declared  so  stoutly  ,0  the  contrary 
^or  he  never  seemed  ,o  wan.  to  b    alone,  especialiv 

hetw,„ght-and.ha.'sasuresig„;.,ndhelef, 
a  I  h,s  letters  ly.ng  around  after  he  had  written  them ; 
and  when  he  sang,  which  he  did  very  nicelv,  he  pre- 


I20 


7HE  ATTIC  GUEST 


ferred  '<  Scots  VVha'  Ha'e  "  to  •«  Annie  Laurie  " ;  and 
he  was  never  melancholy,  and  never  sighed — and  he 
never  asked  the  price  of  things  you  need  for  house- 
keeping. So  all  these  signs  convinced  me  thor- 
oughly. 

I  have  already  said  he  didn't  seem  to  care  a  thing 
for  me.     And  yet— and  yet!     For  one  thing,  he 
loved  to  hear  me  sing — and  he  taught  me  two  or 
three  of  the  old  psalms  that  were  in  a  leather-bound 
book   he  brought  down-stairs   one  day.     Then  he 
seemed  so  happy  when  I  said  I  thought  them  beauti- 
ful.    And  he  talked  with  me  so  gently  and  reason- 
ably about  the  darkey  question  that  I  finally  came  to 
admit   he  did  right  in  preaching  in  that  coloured 
church.     And  I  wondered  why  he  cared  for  what  I 
thought  at  all.     Besides  all  this,  he  tried  to  get  my 
promise  that  I  would  take  a  class  in  the  Sunday- 
school  after  he  was  gone — and  I  remember  the  gray 
kind  of  feeling  I  had  inside  of  me  when  he  spoke  of 
going  away.     I  wouldn't  promise,  /or  I  was  about  as 
fit  to  teach  a  class  as  I  was  to  be  President  of  the 
United  States — but  I  promised  to  help  in  the  library. 
By  and  by,  though  I  can't  tell  how,  we  even  came 
to  speaking  about  Charlie.     And  he  praised  him, 
said  he  was  such  a  clever  business  man,  and  hand- 
some,    i  didn't  think  much  of  that;  but  one  even- 
ing, when  we  were  sitting  on  the  shore   all   alone, 


LO^ES    TUTORSHIP  ,j, 

he  said  he  thought  an  engagement  was  sueh  a  saered 
th,ng_and  he  urged  me,  in  a  ve.led  kind  of  way  al- 
ways to  be  true  to  Charlie.   And  it  was  then  I  began 
to  know    any  true  girl  would  know  there  was  some- 
thing, when  he  talked  like  that. 
'        And  it  was  through  that-that  kind  of  conversa- 
tion, I  mean-that  it  all  came  about.    Because,  by 
and  by,  I  actually  told  him  all  about  my  misgivings 
and  my  fea..     Of  course  I  did  it  all  loyally  enough 

7el,'rr  r'"'  ^''"'"'  ^"^  ^^^^^  -'«  •  "^new 
wed  hkely  be  so  happy  because  he  w^,  already- 

and  I  would  try  to  be.    And  I  told  him  one  day 
how  Charhe  was  still  urging  me  to  consent  that  ,^ 
sho  Id  be  soon,  right  away  soon-and  any  one  would 
have  thought,  .f  they  watched  his  expression,  that  he 
was  very  concerned  for  Charlie's  interests.    For  a 
strange  paleness  came  upon  his  face  when  he  broke  a 
s.lence  that  seemed  rather  long,  I  fancy,  to  both  of  us. 
thu,k  you  should,''  he  said,  but  his  voice  was 
o  strange  that  I  wondered  where  all  his  strength 
had  gone  to.  ^ 

doI.!?r   """'''  '""'  "^  '"'"■■  '  ^-^Pl'^".  and  I 
don  t  beheve  my  own  voice  was  quite  natural 

;;  ^=;'"^=  '  "''"''  y'-'d  be  happier,"  he  answered 

fi~,'  "^"'  '""'  *°  ^'  ''^PPy"    Then,  for  the 

first  t,me,  he  looked  at  me,  and  his  wonderful  eyes 

were  filled  with  a  kind  of  yearning  such  as  I  never  saw 


122 


THE   ATriC   GUEST 


W^^:: 


beiore.  So  different,  indeed,  from  the  look  in 
Charlie's  eyes,  though  nobody  surely  ever  yearned 
more  earnestly  than  Charlie. 

"  I'm  about  as  happy  now,"  I  answered,  "  as  any 
girl  could  hope  to  be." 

He  looked  at  mc  enquiringly,  and  I  thought  the 
paleness  was  deeper  than  before. 

"  Just  like  I  arx;,  I  mean,"  I  hastened  to  enlarge, 
"  with  a  lovely  house,  and  having  a  lovely  time — and 
uncle  and  aunt  and  mother  all  so  good  to  me." 

"  It  isn't  the  same,"  he  said. 

"  The  same  as  what?  "  I  pressed,  knowing  I  should 
not.  But  I  remember  yet  the  thrill  of  peril  and  pain 
and  joy  that  accompanied  the  words. 

"  The  same  as  love — real  love,"  he  answered 
slowly.  "  It  isn't  the  same  at  all — the  other  is  a  new 
life  altogether.  That's  what  makes  life  holy — and 
beautiful,"  he  said,  his  voice  so  low  I  could  scarcely 
hear.  "  That's  the  whole  of  life — every  bit  of  it,"  he 
added  softly. 

I  answered  never  a  word.  And  in  a  moment  he 
went  on.  "  Yes,  that's  my  highest  wish  lor  you, 
Miss  Helen — that  you  may  find  a  sphere  worthy  of 
you.  For  you'll  forgive  me,  won't  j'ou,  when  I  say 
you  haven't  found  it  yet  ?  You've  got  a  vvonderful 
nature,"  he  suddenly  startled  me  with,  "  and  you've 
got   gifts   and   qualities   that   can   be   so  useful,  so 


4 

I 

i 


I 


•■Tr"j  (^  :w '-: ; 


i 


i 


LOyns    TUTORSHIP  „j 

wonderfully  u.eful-and  .l,.j.  ca„  give  you  such  deep 
happme^  too."  l,e  wen.  earnestly  on,  "  if  they  only 
get  a  chance_if  you  only  give  them  a  chance ;  if 
they  re  developed,  I  mean.     And  nothing  will  ever 
npen  them  but — but  that." 

"But  what  r' murmured  I,  who  knew  right  well. 
,^  But  love,    he  answered  gently.    -No  woman's  '■ 

l.fe  ever  really  ripens  except  U.rough  love.     And- 
forg,ve  me  again,  but  I  must  say  it-you're  not  get- 

Heln.'"  "'"'  °'"  "'  '"■''  """^  ^  ^"^  "'  ■■'»■'•  M'^ 
I  looked  at  him  searchingly.    "As  I  am  now?" 
echoed.    "Why.  what  kind  of  life  do  you  think 
I  n.  hvmg  ,       But  even  as  I  spoke  the  words  my  own 
poor  heart  provided  all  the  answer.     I  felt  rising  up 
w.thm  me  a  conception,  not  adequate  .r  full  but 
qu..e  sufficient  at  the  time,  of  the  hollowness  and'bar- 
renness  of  the  poor  frivolous  life  I  was  livmg.    And 
I  knew,  oh,  so  well,  how  far  from  the  well-spring  .f 
rea   joy  and  peace  were  the  gUttering  streams  at 
which  I  had  s.pped  so  long. 

^^2J-^oyou.eanP-.I.rged.rorhehadnot 

"Oh,-  he  began  slowly.  .J  g.ess  you  know. 
Nobody  can  have  a  nature  like  yours  without  know- 
ing when  it's  not  being  satisfied.  You  have  no  ,vork 
-no  callmg.  I  mean.     And  you  don't  have  any  rec- 


124 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


reation,  except  only  pleasure— a  little  party  here, 
and  a  picnic  there,  a  card  party  yonder,  and  an  after- 
noon tea  somewhere  else.  You  know  what  I  mean 
—all  those  things— and  a  nature  like  yours  can't  live 
on  confections,'"  he  added,  smiling.  "  That's  why  I'll 
be  glad— when  the  other  happens." 
-  "  What  other  ?  "  repeated  I,  who  knew  right  well 
again. 

"  You  know,"  he  said ;  and  the  great  eyes  look"-'- 
solemnly  and  wistfully  into  mine. 

"  Do  you  mean  when  I  marry  Mr.  Giddens  ?  "  said 
I,  dwelling  on  the  words,  my  eyes  never  taken  from 
his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  that's  what  I  mean."  And  his 
own  eyes  never  flinched,  although  I  could  see  the 
pallor  deepen  on  his  face.  And  I  rejoiced,  though  I 
honestly  believe  I  scarce  knew  why. 

"  What  difiference  would— would  that  make  ?  "  I 
asked,  looking  away. 

"  It  would  fill  your  life,"  he  answered  quietly,  "  fill 
your  life  to  overflowing." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  give  up  those  things  even  then— 
card-playing  and  dancing  and  everything  like  that. 
I've  always  done  those  things— and  I  love  them, 
Mr.  Laird.  You  don't  understand  me,  I'm  afraid. 
You  see,  your  hfe  has  been,  a  very  different  one 
from  mine,  hasn't  it  ?  " 


LOt^E'S    TUTORSHIP 


{ 


W,de  a.  tl,c  poles  asunder,"  he  answered  without 
«-k,„ga.,„e.     "I  never  knew  a.,y  of  those  things 
Y«  very  d.fierent,"  he  repeated.    And  he  smiled 

Posel-Tv'T''/"  ''"'  ""^'""^  P"Ple.I  sup. 
pose:'     1  ventured.  *^ 

;•  %  mother's  not  living,"  he  said  in  a  hushed 
voice.    "  She  died  when  I  was  ten  " 

Y«,    hesa,d.     We  were  Sitting  by  the  river  at 

ul,r.hT  """"""■■"^•'"""^'-"•ay, 

<«thed  the  trees  with  amber  light.    His  head  was  ly- 

."g  on  the  ground;  and  the  dying  sun  shed  its  beauty 

face.  Modulated  ,s  the  fitting  word,  for  various 
vcces  spoke  through  the  different  features,  yet  the 
master  note  was  tenderness,  always  so  lovabk  in  a 
man  when  it  is  joined  to  strength. 

"  ■■'^  1°'  -  'o  be  religious,"  I  said  suddenly.    ..  I  be- 
l.=ve  I  would  have  been,  too,  if  Td  been  a  „,an  " 

Hesmiled.     "Why  would  you  hice  to  b- religious?" 
he  sa,d,  picking  up  a  pebble  and  throwing  it  far  out 

■  tothenver.    "  VouVe  just  said  you  love  those 
Other  things  so  much." 

"  Oh.  yes.  I  know  I  did.     But  I  mean  what  I  say. 

just   the  same.      I   admire   that  sort  of  people"  I 

went    on    enthusiasticallv;   '<  reh-.^io-r    nP     ■       ' 
kn  p     .1  ,  reii^ioa,    peupie,    you 

kn  Really  good  people-uke  you."  I  broke  out 


126 


THE   AT71C   GUEST 


recklessly.  "  I  knew  an  awfully  religious  girl  in 
Richmond  once.  She  was  naturally  good,  no  strug- 
gle for  her  at  all.  Well,  she  married  a  minister," — I 
laughed  as  I  said  it — •'  and  nearly  all  her  friends  pity 
her  so.  She  and  her  husband  live  in  the  country, 
and  he  takes  care  of  his  own  horse — he  has  three 
stations.  But  I  never  pitied  her,"  I  declared 
earnestly ;  "  I  think  it  must  be  a  perfectly  lovely 
life — when  your  heart's  in  it.  She  loves  him  to  dis- 
traction— and  his  work  too ;  and  she  visits  the  peo- 
ple, and  she  teaches  in  the  Sunday-school.  Besides, 
she  has  two  children — and  I  think  he  preaches  all 
l.is  sermons  at  her  on  Saturday  nights  and  she  fixes 
them  up.  But  then,  of  course,  she's  fitted  for  that 
sort  of  thing — she  can  pray  out  loud,"  I  concluded, 
nodding  my  head  towards  Mr.  Laird  as  though  this 
were  the  acme  of  all  eulogy. 

•'  There  are  better  kinds  of  prayer  than  that,"  he  an- 
swered, smiling  again  ;  "and  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  pity 
her,"  he  added,  turning  his  earnest  eyes  on  me  again. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  could  not  help  enquiring. 

"  Because  I  was  afraid  you  would,"  he  said  mean- 
ingly— "  and  she  doesn't  need  it.  Where  two  hearts 
are  in  love  with  each  other  and  their  work — I 
wouldn't  ask  any  higher  heaven  than  that."  Then 
he  sighed  ;  although,  as  I  have  said,  he  wasn't  much 
given  to  sighing. 


LOIRE'S    TUTORSHIP  ^2^ 

Then  came  my  question.  I<'or  days  I  had  been 
burn.nn;  to  ask  it;  yet  I  marvel  that  I  uas  ever  bold 
enou-h  to  form  tlie  words. 

"  You  talk  like  a  specialist  on  that  subject.  Were 
you  ever  in  love,  Mr.  Laird  ?  "  I  shot  the  uords  out 
quickly;  otherwise  they  never  would  have  come. 

He  turned  with  swift  movement  and  looked  at  me 
It  seemed  to  me  he  looked  me  over  from  head  to 
foot,  though  I  knew  he  wouldn't  do  anything  .so  rude 
The  paleness  was  all  gone  now.  I  noticed,  and  I 
thought  his  lip  trembled  a  little.  I  ■  was  a  moment 
before  he  spoke. 

"  You've  been  very  kind  in  giving  me  your  con- 
fidence, haven't  you.  Miss  Helen  ?  "  he  asked,  very 
gravely  and  slowly. 

!  stammered  out  my  answer.  "  Forgive  me.  Mr. 
Laird,"  I  began  penitently;  "  I  had  no  right  to'  say 
what  I  did.  And  if  I've  told  you  anything  about 
-about  me  and  Charlie-it  was  only  because  it 
seemed  easy  to  do  it-because  I  wanted  to.  Because 
I  trusted  you."  I  added,  wishing  some  one  would 
suddenly  appear. 

But  no  one  did.  and  Mr.  Laird  seemed  so  dread- 
fully calm.  I  was  waiting,  intending  to  say  some- 
thing more,  when  he  went  serenely  r^n 


seems 


Well,   r  can  trust  you,  too."  he  said;   "and  it 
easy  to  tell  you.     And,  anyhow.  I  don't  know 


128 


THE  A7TIC   GUEST 


why  I  shouldn't.  Yes,  I  was  in  love  once,  long  ago. 
And  I  was  engaged  to  be  married,"  he  continued,  in 
that  same  tone  of  reverence  with  which  he  always 
spoke  of  matters  such  as  this.  "  But  it's  long  ago 
now — it  was  while  I  was  in  my  second  year  in  the 
university.  And  I  had  to  give  her  up  "—he  smiled 
as  he  turned  his  eyes  on  mine — ••  had  to  give  her  up 
for  another  man.  Her  father,  like  mine,  was  a  shep- 
herd, and  she  was  bright  as  a  sunbeam  and  as  pure  as 
the  devvdrop  in  the  dell— that's  a  line  from  an  old 
Scotch  song,"  he  interjected,  smiling  rather  more 
broadly  than  I  thought  he  should  have  done  in  mid- 
narrative  of  a  tragedy  like  that.  "  But  a  fellow  came 
home  from  across  the  sea — from  Australia — and  he 
was  very  rich." 

"  Did  she  give  you  up  for  him  ?  "  I  asked,  indigna- 
tion in  my  voice. 

"  Not  exactly,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  it  amounted  to 
that.  She  wrote  and  asked  me  to  release  her ;  said 
she  had  found  she  loved  him  best." 

"  And  you  gave  her  up  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  and  I  thought  what  a  mag- 
nificent man  he  was ;  "  yes,  what  else  could  I  do  ? 
Or  what  else  could  she  do  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  hate  her  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not — I  think  she  did  perfectly 
right.     Anything  else  would  have  been  false  to  both 


i 


i 


LOI^ES    TUTORSHIP  ,„ 

of  u».     And  they  got  carried  very  soo„  aftcr-ll... 

.avc  three  bairn.  „o.."  and  ,  wondered  how  he  c      d 

sm,lesuchahappyki„d„f,„,j,^  ""''' 

"And  do  you  think."  I  sai.l  ..  .t 

sl.e  found  she  loved  somebody  e,s!7  '"'-'' 

"  Ves,"  he  answered  slowly.     «  Ves   r  M,inU    . 
-ould.     But  she  has  no  right  to  find  o  / 
the  sorf     r  ,       ,1  °"^  anything  of 

uie  sort—I  would  never  find  it  o..t  "  j  , 

firmly.  °"*'    ^^  concluded 

"Vouwouldn't?-why  wouldn't  you?" 
"  ^^""^"^^  '   shouldn't/'   he  said  ■    «.  that's   «..,      r 
-uldn't-.fnoved.I'dlovealwa;s"  "' 

"Would   you   have  loved  /...always?"!  asked 
wondering  at  my  rashness.  ' 

"^-     Do  you  know.  I  bdieve  its  getting  chillv^ 
-sludl  we  go  home  ?  "  ^      '^'^ 

-:  tof:it:::r^^^f^^^^ 

oi  the  strong  man  beside  me.     I  knew   or 
f=  .  jat  e    t  ,  ,_^^^^  _^^^  ^  _^^^^^_^  e        r 

--       untavetoid  why,  bn.it.  burningheatw 
J       1.  real  to  me  as  anything  could  be      I  knew  ,> 
-s  anan,e;  but  he  was  as  reserved,  ad    o  d     nd 

™^"""^'  "'^'  '■''^  """""S  'odo  with  human  hearts 


130 


THE    ATTIC   GUEST 


at  all.  I  hated  myself  for  the  weakness  I  could  not 
conceal.  And  I  fairly  loathed  that  Scotch  girl  who 
married  the  rich  Australian— and  I  hoped  all  her 
children  had  flaming  red  hair,  like  I  felt  sure  she  had. 

That  same  night  I  was  chatting  a  while  with  uncle 
before  he  went  to  bed. 

"  And  what  is  your  majesty  going  to  decide  about 
Savannah — and  the  royal  yacht— and  Europe?"  he 
suddenly  enquired,  after  our  talk  had  run  a  little  on  a 
kindred  vein. 

"  I'm  not  going,"  I  declared  vehemently ;  "  at  least, 
not  for  a  long  time — I  simply  can't." 

"  I  wouldn't  either."  he  said  meaningly,  "  if  I  were 
yo'i — you'll  be  a  fool  if  you  do." 

"  Why  ?  "  demanded  I. 

"  I  reckon  you  know."  said  uncle  ;  "  if  you  don't,  J. 
won't  tell  you.  And  I  don't  blame  you,  honey.  I 
think  he's  a  true  blue  sort  of  chap— but  he'll  have  to 
revise  his  views  about  the  nicjgers." 

Well,  the  result  of  the  whole  thing  was  this,  that  I 
spent  a  good  half  hour  posting  my  diary  that  night. 
I  too  had  begun  a  diary  by  this  time — and  I,  too, 
took  good  care  whose  name  shouldn't  go  into  it.  And 
the  outcome  of  my  half  hour's  qondering  was  this 
brief  entry :  "  Have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  can't 
marry  Charlie— and  I  shall  never,  never  marry  the 
Reverend  Gordon  Laird.'' 


i 

i 
I 


THE   RiyER   LEADING   TO   THE   SEA 

IK   there  is   one  ilvrg  a  girl  loves  more  than 
another,  its  being  a  martyr.     U  there  is  any 
such  thing  as  sweet  sorrow,  that's  where  it  may 
be  found.     And  of  all  kinds  of  martyrdom  the  love 
k.nd  .s  the  sweetest.     Now  in  all  this  a  woman  is  so 
different  from  a  man.     A  man  enjoys  the  suffering 
that  comes   with  love_if  some   one   else  does  the 
suffenng;    but  a  woman  glories  in  it-if  someone 
else  does  the  lovmg.     And  that  was  pretty  much 
my  case. 

For  I  was  having  lots  of  love-from  Charlie.     This 
was  all  very  well  so  far  as  it  went;  nor  can  it  be 
domed  that  it  went  a  considerable  wav.     For  every 
k'.rl  prizes  a  strong  mans  love,  thougn  she  return  it 
never  so   faintly.     Like  some  preachers,  she  highly 
esteems  a  call-even  if  she  hai  little  or  no  thought  of 
accepting  it.    But  there  is  nothing,  nothing  in  all  the 
norld,   so   troublesome   as   love;    unless   it    utterly 
-  you— then  is  the  solution  simple.     But  to 
it  enough  to  marry  on.  with  no  surplus  for 
•s— that's  dreadful.     That  is  like  launching 


have 
the  1 


13^ 


•TtIK   ATTIC   GUEST 


some  miijhty  ship  when  tlie  tide  in  uut— and  it  must 
be  awful  lo  hear  the  keel  ^,'ratiu^'  on  the  sand. 

Yes,  that's  where  the  niartydom  conies  in,  to  recall 
the    noble    word    with  which  I   beyan  the  chapter. 
And    when    the  Jud[;nient   Day  shall  dawn— con- 
ccrninjj  which  I  have  no  doubt,  but  much  niisjjiviuij 
— tile   most   oft- repeated    charge  against  our   poor 
weak  womanhood  will  be  that  we  sold  ourselves  lor 
nought.     Some  of  our  loveliest  will  be  the  first  to 
learn,  in  that  great  day,  how  deadly  was  the  barter 
of  their  bodies — and  of  so  much  more.     I  have  often 
heard  uncle  say  that  when  a  horse  is  sold  its  halter 
always  goes  along— but  no  one  ever  told  me  that 
when   a  girl  sells  her  body,   that  sale  includes  the 
soul.     Reluctant,  protesting,   even    horrified,   it  vet 
must   cleave  to   its   tenement  of  clay  and  meet  the 
tenant's  doom.     And  what  a  doom !  if  it  be  fitting 
destiny  for  those  who  have  bartered  the  sanctity  of 
life,  some  for  bread,  some  for  home,  some  for  gold, 
some  for  fame,  some  for  earthly  station  ;  and  some, 
nobler  these,  for  very  hungriness  of  heart,  crying  out 
for  the  nameless  something  that  shall  satisfy  the  soui. 
I  hardly  know  just  how  or  when  I  resigned  myself 
to   such   a   martyrdom.     But  I   did.     I  decided   to 
marry   Charlie,   right  soon    too — despite  the  defiant 
vow  I  had  registered  in  my  diary  that  night.     One 
thin>;  I'm  si-re  of— and  that  is,  that  Europe  and  the 


\ 


I 


I 


i 


T-'  RII^I^R  Lr^D/m  To  7/„  ifw       ,  „ 

r  TT"".'  ',  '""•■'  '^""'"  ""'•■'"  ""■""•  "---iffron, 
tl     deck  of  .he  aforesaid  yaci,.  ,f  I  d,u„-,  ,„,„,.  ,,i„,  . 

or  whether  lfe.,i,„..u„„„er  of  honour;  or  Jhether' 
I  knew  ,.  would  throw  mothers  life  into  eclipse  ;  or 
whether  I  agreed  with  that  semi-intellisent  ph.los- 
opher  who  once  said  that  all  life  was  a  p.n.ble  in 
probab,l,ties.  or  somethinp  of  that  sort,  I  cannot  say 
Hut  anyhow,  one  nudnight  hour.  I   drew   „,y  pen 
through   the   first  half  of  that  diary  vow,  the  part 
w  ..ch  declared  I  could  never  n.arry  Charhe,  and  I 
■eft  un.njured  the  savage  promise  to  „,ysdf  that  I 
would   never,   never   marry   the    Reverend    Gordon 

Besides,  he  had  been  horrid.     Not  in  any  positive 

sense,  of  course,  for  Mr.  Uird  was  such  a  perfect 

gentleman.     And  yet  he  was  a  gentleman  after  a 

-h,on   1  had  never  seen  before.     Me  wa,,  „„,  i„ 

the     east   hke  our  Southern    gallants  ;    he  couldn't 

bow  l„.e  them,  nor  make  pretty  .speed,es_and  he 

vou  d„  t  jump  across  the  floor  to  pick  up  „,y  ,,a„d. 

kerc  ne    though  ,  once  saw  him  give  Dinah  a  hand 

up  the  back  steps  with  a  heavy  block  of  ice  that  had 

clipped   from    her  grasp  and  fallen  to  the  bol.„  .. 

And  he  never  brough-  „,e  flowers,  or  candies,  except 

some   wild   violets    he    might    sometimes    oiucki 

and  once  h< 


id   give  me  some  molasses  taffy,  of 


j£±:..:^^tl!!k'^^:^JKMiSmi^iSS^Wc:^^tl 


»-v 


U4 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


which    his    reverence    himself  partook  with    almost 
juvenile  enthusiasm. 

But  he  was  scrupulously  polite,  and  that's  so  hard 
for  a  girl  to  stand  if  she's  interested  in  a  man  at  all. 
And  he  seemed  so  strong,  and  self-possessed,  that  he 
was  distant  without  meaning  to  be— the  distance  of  a 
sort  of  superiority,  all  the  worse  because  you  knew 
he  wasn't  trying  to  make  you  realize  it  at  all ;  and  I 
had  the   intolerable  feeling  that  his  world  was  an 
altogether  different  one  from  mine,  and  that  he  was 
interested  in  things  I  didn't  know  about,  yet  which 
I  felt  might  be  just  as  much  mine  as  his  if  I  only  had 
a  chance.     As  it  was,  however,  I  was  a  good  deal  like 
a  child  standing  knee  high  to  some  man  whose  face 
was  half  hidden  by  the  telescope  to  liis  eye;  if  he 
knew  you  were  there  at  all,   you  felt  the  very  most 
he'd  do  would  be  to  pat  your  head  and  ask  you  if 
you'd  lost  your  ball. 

I  don't  know  what  finally  decided  me.  But  any- 
how I  wrote  Charlie  a  letter,  and  told  him  Yes.  "  Yes, 
right  away,"  was  the  burden  of  what  I  said,  "  as  soon 
as  I  can  get  ready."  I  thought  at  the  lime  what  a 
cruel  term  that  was. "  getting  ready  "—as  if  the  milliner 
and  dressmaker  had  any  part  to  play  in  that.  All 
the  world  I  would  have  given  to  have  known  how  to 
really  "  get  ready  "  in  my  inmost  heart  and  life.  But 
I  wrote  the  letter,  and  sealed  it,  and  kissed  it  on  the 


1 

1 

i 


\ 


I 

1 

1 


i 


The  RIl^ER  LEADING  To  -The  SEA       135 

outside-w.:h  1  icit  V  -s  the  proper  thing  to  do_ 
and  then  I  U,d  it  ii.  tVe  Bible  u„  my  dressing-table, 
taking  quite  .•  ;  .0  ,  salislactioii  in  the  fancy.  Then 
I  sat  down  and  cried  till  my  eyes  were  sore  and  the 
Bible  all  stained  with  bitter  tears.  Later  on,  I  told 
my  mother;  her  joy  was  quite  enough  for  two,  quite 
too  much  for  me. 

And  I  told  Mr.  Laird  too.  Some  will  ask  why, 
and  perhaps  make  merry  over  that  delicate  reserve 
which  Southern  women  pride  themselves  upon.  But 
let  them  .sk,  and  let  them  make  merry  as  they  will. 
Besides,  I  had  already  told  Mr.  Laird  so  much  that 
it  was  surely  natural  enough  for  me  to  tell  him  this. 
Moreover,  was  he  not  a  minister— and  what  are  they 
for  if  not  to  be  confided  in  ? 

So  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  post  a  letter.  It  was 
the  gathering  dusk,  for  such  a  letter  should  never  sure 
be  launched  in  the  garish  light  of  day.  Then  I  told 
Iiim  what  was  in  it,  or.  at  least,  told  him  enough  to 
let  him  know  ;  for  he  was  remarkably  "  quick  in  the 
uptake,"  to  adopt  a  phrase  of  his  own  countrymen  ;  I 
think  I  referred,  too,  to  his  own  counsel  in  tlie  matter. 

He  didn't  speak  for  a  little,  nor  could  I  see  his  face. 


Init  when  he  did  break  the  silence.it 


was  to  say  he'd 


u:ilk  to  the  post-office  with  me ;  he  added  that  the 
exercise  would  do  him  good,  since  he  hadn't  had  much 
of  an   appetite  for  supper— which   was,  I   thought, 


136 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


one  of  tlie  shabbiest  speeches  he  could  have  framed. 
But  I  let  him  come. 

"  Why  not  row  down  ?  "  he  suddenly  suggested  as 
we  came  to  the  bend  in  tlie  road  beside  the  river. 
Our  boat-house,  its  door  wide  open,  was  at  the  water's 
edge.  "  We  ca-  'nd  within  a  square  of  the  office," 
he  enlarged. 

I  should  have  refused,  I  know ;   for  the  letter  to 
Charlie  was  in   my  hand.    But  I  didn't.     And  I  re- 
member yet  the  sense  of  sweet  helplessness  I  felt  as 
he  turned  and  led  the  way  to  the  boat-house.     It  all 
comes  back  to  me  again.     I  stand  once  more  alone, 
outside,  while   the  ^  ill  form  disappeared   within  the 
low-roofed  house.     The  sound  of  pushing  and  rolling 
I   hear  again  as   the  boat  emerged  slowly  from  its 
home.     The  rattle  of  oars  comes  back,  idly  rolling  to 
and  fro  in  the   rocking  skiff;  the  metallic  chink  as 
they  were  being  adjusted  in  the  iron  sockets  ;  and  the 
lapping  waves,  and  the  soft  breath  of  evening,  and  the 
distant  noises  of  the  drowsy  town.     I  remember,  too, 
that    there   was  neitlier   moon   nor  star,  the  sky  all 
veiled   with   the  gentle  haze  that  often  marks  our 
Southern  spring.     He  rowed ;  and  I  sat  in  the  arm- 
chair in  the  stern. 

"  You're  going  too  far  out,"  I  said  suddenly,  for 
we  were  near  the  middle  of  the  river. 

"  I  want  to  get  a  last  look  at  the  place,"  he  said, 


7^ 


i»:"*s»-aw..cs-fl 


^mmffsmw 


ifi  ,-xn::^m?t:m3E.'m 


jj^Fy^''  :«k:-': 


ne  RII^ER  LEADING  To  'The  SEA  ,37 
"  and  one  can  see  better  from  out  here.  Doesn't  the 
town  look  lovely  in  the  dusk?~see  all  those  tu.n- 
kling  lights." 

"  Yes,"  I  agreed,  «•  it's  beautiful.  Why  do  you  say 
that  ?  "  I  asked,  trying  to  conceal  the  tremor  in  my 
voice. 

"  Say  what  ?  " 

«  What  you  said  a  moment  ago— about  a  last  look 
— why  the  last  ?  " 

"Because  it  is,"  he  answered  slowly,  the  oars 
hardly  moving  now.     '« I'm  going  away." 

I  looked  down  at  the  dimplmg  track  my  hand  was 
making  in  *ht  water. 

"Wh-  ,  said;  oh,  so  carelessly. 

"To-m(   .^w." 

"Where?"  as  I  caught  at  the  little  throb  in  my 
voice. 

"To  Canada—they've  got  an  opening  for  me 
there.     I'm  going  to  take  a  mission  field." 

I  made  no  response.  But  I  knew  for  the  first 
time,  in  all  this  life  of  mine,  what  it  really  meant  to 
liave  a  heart  on  fire.  He  was  not  looking,  so  he 
could  not  see  the  quick  rise  and  fall  of  my  bosom  as 
I  looked  out  through  the  deepening  darkness  towards 
the  twinkling  shore.  I  could  see  the  dim  outline  of  a 
few  tall  elms  on  the  bank ;  and  muffled  sounds  fronted 
towards  us  across  the  darkling  water.     But  what  I 


■i)S 


THE   AT 'TIC   GUEST 


remember  most  was  the  wonderful  stillness  that 
reigned  without,  while  the  first  real  heart-storm  I  had 
ever  known  ragea  deep  within. 

One  hand  was   in  the  water,  troubling   the   un- 
conscious element ;  in  the  other  I  still  held  the  letter 
I  had   written  Charlie.     And  I  leaned  far  out  over 
the  edge  of  the  boac,  withdrawing  my  gaze  from  the 
shore;  but  the  silent  river  gave  oack  notning  except 
murky  blankness.     Life  had   the  selfsame  colour  to 
me   then,   poor   child   and  changelinjr   that   I    was. 
Suddenly  I  felt  that  his  eyes  were  on  lu^.  tliough  the 
gloom   V  s    deepening— and    I    trembled,    actually 
trembled;  if  I  had  been  alone  with  him  in  mid-ocean 
I  could  not  have  trembled  more.     Perhaps  I  glanced 
down  the  sullen  river  and  remembered  that  its  home 
was  the  far  waiting  sea. 

Then  he  moved—and  towards  me.  If  there  had 
been  a  mile  between  us,  instead  of  a  few  paltry  feet, 
I  could  not  have  been  more  conscious  of  his  coming. 
For  he  never  spoke,  and  I  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 
In  a  moment  he  was  beside  me,  or  at  my  feet,  or 
both.  And  such  a  transformation  I  had  never  seen. 
His  voice  was  low  and  unsteady,  choking  almost,  and 
I  could  catch  the  wonderful  fire  of  his  eyes  as  they 
were  fastened  on  me  in  the  gloom. 

"  Don't,"  I  said  faintly,  "  please  don't—let  us  row 
iu- we'll  miss  the  mail." 


•^ 


i*i'3i 


-iMiiSBwmsrs^i^ 


;ifiliVCk.:LW»i£3S8! 


RF^m^T?^;}^!^ 


ZZy7%^i^ 


-iVCa 


The  RlVllli  LEADING  To  The  SEA  ,39 
But  l.e  made  no  movement,  never  e'-en  glancing  at 
one  of  the  oars  which  had  been  hfted  from  its  socket 
and  slipped  with  a  little  splach  into  the  stream 
The  other  sulked  alone  in  the  darkly  dimpling 
water.  " 

"  Oh  !  Helen,"  he  said  in  an  altered  voice,  such  a 
voice  as  I  had  never  heard  before,  "you  know-you 
know  all  I  want  to  say." 

He  had  hold  of  my  hand,  the  one  that  held  the 
letter.     And  still  I  did  not  move  or  speak.      I3ut 
a  swift  thought  flashed  through  my  nind ;  .t  was    i 
another  day,  when  another  man  had  thus  IJd  siege  to 
me-and  I  knew  now  what  life's  real  passion  meant 
Yes,  I  will  tell  it-and  they  may  smile  who  will_my 
whole  soul  leaped  in  silent  ecstasy,  and  tnumph,  and 
hope.     But  the  greatest  of  these  was  hope.     I  knew 
at  long  last,  what  it  meant  to  love  and  to  be  loved-' 
and  no  queen  ever  gloried  in  the  hour  of  her  corona- 
tion as  I  silently  rejoiced  in  mine.     I  forgot  that  he 
^vas  stronger  than  I,  and  greater,  and  nobler;  forgot 
all  about  the  strencth  of  intellect  that  I  had  felt  as  a 
gulf  between  us ;  all  the  difference,  too.  of  life's  aim 
and  purpose  was  sunk  and  forgotten  now.     I  even 
forgot  that  he  ;vas  a  minister  at  all,  set  apart  for  life 
to  duties  and  sacrifices  for  which  I  had  neither  gift 
nor  mclinatinn.     I  only  knew  I  loved  him,  and  that 
we  were  i.lone  together-and  that  he  was  at  my  feet 


liO 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


■-  s' 


"  Helen,"  he  began  again,  "  I'm  going  away— and 
you'll  forget  all  about  me,  won't  you,  Helen?" 

It  was  sweet  to  hear  liim  speak  my  name.  And 
his  words  would  mean,  of  course,  that  he  wanted  me 
to  forget— but  I  knew  what  they  really  meant,  and  I 
held  every  tone  sacred  to  my  heart. 

Then  I  said,  and  the  words  were  soft  as  the  breeze 
about  us :  "  I  won't." 

I  knew  it  was  wrong— for  Charlie's  letter  was  still 
in  the  hand  he  held.  But  it  was  glorious.  Oh,  how 
I  revelled  in  the  words  I  spoke  !  They  were  simple 
and  insignificant,  I  know,— but  the  v.ild  breath  of  a 
new-born  love  pulsed  through  them,  and  I  could  see 
by  the  kindled  face,  though  the  dark  was  round  about 
us,  how  his  heart  had  leaped  to  recognize  their  mean- 
ing. And  then  his  own  soul  poured  itself  out  in  a 
great  gust  of  passion,  pure  and  holy  and  resistless  and 
triumphant ;  all  the  strength  and  silentness  and  self- 
control  that  had  provoked  my  Avonder  through  the 
days  seemed  now  to  be  turned  to  leaping  flame  as  he 

told  me — oh,  so  eloquently  and  yet  so  brokenly of 

such  a  love  as  I  had  never  dreamed  could  be  offered 
any  maiden's  heart. 

"  Can  you  see  that  steeple  there  ? "  he  said,  his 
voice  hoarse  with  feeling  as  he  pointed  to  the  distant 
town  ;  "  no,  it's  too  dark— but  I  can  see  it.  I  see  it 
even  in  my  dreams.     It  was  under  its  shadow  I  met 


I 

I 


I 


,4 


ri'e  RII^ER  LEADING   To   Uc  SEA       ,4, 
you  first,  „.,,.„  ,o„,  „„„,  ,^„j  ,  ^^,^,^_^  ^^___^ 
h^-  t™.,       ,„J  1  „„,„  ,„,„,  „^,^„_^,^  ^,_^^^  S 

'     .-.,a,,cil,av.k,,„,v,,..vor.,,c.,t,,aul,erc,.a. 

A  dIk„e,v,,k„e.,„.hop.,t  ,„.„,,,  ,.,„^,^,;^ 

uo     or.,,, .,e_a„d.,,ey„,ade  the  place,, ■,..,, eavcn 

'"  r  "■"  '"""  ''"^  B'™  "-■  'I-.  Helen-sur- 
render ,t  to  mc,"  he  went  on  passionately,  his  finge,. 
closmg  stealthily  around  the  letter  in  n,y  l,and 

■'     """»'."  I  cried,  p,otesting,  s,nnn,oni„g  „ha. 
-2J,n,igh..     ..Oh,,eannot-that.n,;,etter 

His  clasp   relaxed   a   little.     •■  ,   knou,"  he  said  : 

ttos  why  I  wan.  it_and  you  cannot,  you  must 
not,  send  it  now." 

••But  you  told  n,e,  you  told  me  more  than  onee  •' 
■  pleaded;  ..you  said  how  true  I  ought  to  be-yo'u 

"owyoudid,"andItren,bled,esthisow„couL, 

Should  prevail. 

He  seemed  to  sink  back  a  little-and  awful  silence 
■cgned  a  moment.  ■.  ]iut  I  didn't  know,-  he  soon 
began    new  earnestness  in  his  voice.  .■  I  only  knew 

t..cn  that  I, ovedyou-and,  could  have  given  yo 
,"":  '  "f''  ""'''-b"'  I  didn't  'now  then  that  you 
belonged  to  me-to  me.  my  darling."  his  voice  riig 

-.he  masterful  w,th  the  words;  ..I  didn't  know 
tl.M  that  God  mean,  you  for  me,  and  that  that  was 


142 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


wliy  He  led  my  steps  across  the  sea.  I  could  have 
given  you  u\i — I  swear  I  couki,"  he  cried  ahiiost 
fiercely,  "  if  it  had  meant  nothing  but  a  wounded 
life  for  me — but  when  it's  you — oh,  u  lien  it's  you, 
my  darlinj,',  when  your  life  would  be  wounded  and 
broken  too.  For  you  love  me,  my  own,"  and  his 
voice  had  the  tenderest  strain  that  ever  filled 
woman's  heart  with  rapture;  "  don't  you,  Helen?  " 
he  went  pleadingly  on ;  "  oh,  say  you  do — or  tell  me, 
tell  me,  Helen,  if  you  don't." 

Then  the  silence  of  death  reigned  about  us  both, 
though  heaven  knows  I  tried  my  best  to  break  it, 
but  could  make  no  sound.  And  then,  then — with  all 
the  stealth  of  love  and  of  a  strong  man's  will — he 
gently  drew  the  letter  from  my  hand,  my  heart 
fluttering  till  it  hurt,  and  without  a  word  he  tore  it 
up,  slowly,  noiselessly,  almost  reverently,  into  a  hun- 
dred pieces,  and  a  moment  later  they  fluttered  through 
the  dark  out  onto  the  bosom  of  the  silent  river. 

I  was  like  one  in  a  dream,  unspeaking  still. 
Perhaps  I  had  a  great  sense  of  weakness,  even  of 
wrong.  But  I  do  not  think  so.  I  only  knei"  that 
life  was  changed  to  me  in  that  wonderful  hour,  and 
that  1  cared  nothing  for  the  future,  all  that  it  might 
bring,  all  my  unfitness  for  it.  I  only  knew  that  I 
had  found  at  last  what  my  poor,  tired,  frivolous  heart 
had  been  seeking  in  alien  ways  for  long.     And  I 


I 


^:^S!;^^mimi'WJ^i^^Bmmss^^»s^^rimmismmc^smmsmBK^ 


The  RII^BR  LEADING  To  7/«  SEA       ,4^ 
knnv.,,a.,„vc.B.eat,ie,  so  desperately  chonshed, 

""'"'"•■'"•"'"»••  i"  W' arms,  so  stroHR,  so  ,H„  I 
^.".  ™y  e,.  ,„d  rested.,, ere;  and  «.,,!:,:.  :,!' 

And  ,  knew  a.  las,  that  love  .a.  h.,y,  stainless,  and 
tnat  tjod  w'di  good 


•■*.''>2.., 


1^ 


•if-;,': 


SDI^ 


XI 


A    MOTHER    COMFESSOR 

THEY  were  waiting  U>r  us  when  we  p;ot 
home,  wondering  a  httle  why  ue  were  so 
late.  We  told  tliem  we  had  been  on  the 
river,  and  Mr.  Laird  apologized  for  the  loss  of  the 
oar  •  I  remember  unck  said  it  was  lucky  he  was  able 
to  f  .  iale  his  own  canoe. 

I  went  into  mother's  room  when  I  went  up-stairs 
to  fix  my  hair — and  she  noticed  that  Charlie's  ring 
was  absent  from  my  hand.  I  expected  her  to,  for  it 
was  a  source  of  constant  joy  to  her.  Then  I  told  her. 
I  shall  not  describe  the  gust  that  followed,  except  to 
say  that  what  I  remember  best  about  it  was  motlier's 
appeal  to  my  sense  of  unfitness  for  the  life  of  a 
n  !nister's  wife.  There  was  a  lot  more — Europe  and 
the  yacht  were  not  forgotten — about  the  folly  of 
giving  myself  to  a  life  of  obscurity  and  poverty  when 
a  very  different  one  was  open  to  me. 

"  I'm  sick  of  money,"  I  said  foolishly  ;  "  I've  al- 
ways had  nearly  everything  I  wanted — and  I  wasn't 
happy." 

"  You'll  know  the  difference  when  j'ou  don't  have 

144 


1 


l^^ 


A    MOTHER    COWZ-LSSOK         ^, 

your  uncle  to  give  you  cv.ryil.i,,.,  ,.„„  ,„.„  „     , , 
my  mother.  '.}"U"Jut,   suij 

•■  It"  been  the  kindest  man  that  ever   was"  I 
agreed,  ..but  no  undo  that  ever  hved  could  ,";.e  a 
■'  :7"'7^"~     There.  ouV  one  i,d: 

)  I  ve  found  him  at  last."  ° 

I'  wo.  then  that  mother  appealed  ,o  „,e  on  the 
ground  of  my  unfitness   for  the  hfe  1  had  c  le^ 

And  I  must  adm,t  that  </,</ hit  me  pretty  hard. 

Look  at  our  ministers  w.fe,"  she  said ;  "  she'3 

::;"    "'  "■  ,  "'^  '~=  ^-^  '-^  half  star  ed       d 
i  .ars-but  she  s  happy  „,  that  kind  of  life  •■ 

■•Maybe  ril  be  happy  too,,  ventured. o  predict. 
How    could    you    be?"   retorted    my   mother 
""o,v  could  you  ever  hope  to  be  uhen  L 
-  -.at  kind  Of  .ork,     ..:;!-:- 

-Si;:i;;;.3'b:^'-— .„d 

"  And  s,iie  can  take  the  rtn.r  ^f  ^ 

ai^c  me  cnair  at  mecting.s_and  siiv< 
^..-vs  1.0>v  to  talk  to  minister  when  they  come 
-^  .hey  say  she  ,o„,s  over  her  husband,  serm" 
snd  makes  suggestions."  ' 

■■My  husband-s  sermons  u-on't  need  any,"  I  made 
"eh.    And  at  tins  I  blushed  furiously:  the  word 


iP: 


IP  ■ 


'^■'.V. 


146 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


sounded  like  a  beautiful  judgment  day.  I  knew  how 
crimson  my  f-^ce  and  neck  all  prcw,  for  I  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  a  pier  glass  at  the  time,  my  hair  flowing 
down  about  my  shoulders.  And  I  wondered  if  I  was 
beautiful — I  hoped  I  was,  but  not  for  my  own  sake 
at  all — I  can  honestly  say  no  vanity  was  in  my 
thought.     Everything  was  different  now. 

"  Of  course,"  conceded  my  mother,  "  I  believe  in  a 
girl  marrying  for  love — but  you  haven't  known  him 
long  enough.  Now  Charlie's  different ;  you've  known 
him  so  long." 

"That's  just  where  it  comes  in,"  said  I,  dimly 
groping  for  what  I  felt  was  a  great  point. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  mother. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  ansv  ered,  which  was  gloriously 
true. 

"  Besides,"  digressed  my  mother,  leaving  this  ob- 
scure point  unsettled,  "  what  reason  have  you  got 
to  think  you'll  ever  get  along  agreeably  with  his 
folks  ?  " 

•'  I'd  get  along  with  Choctaw  Indians,"  quoth  I, 
"  if  it  would  make  him  any  happier ;  besides,  I  won't 
have  to — they're  all  in  Scotland." 

"Whose  happiness  do  yor  mean?"  enquired  my 
mother,  though  she  knew  right  well. 

"  Why,  his— Mr.  laird's,  of  course." 

"  Are  you  going  to  call  him  Mr.  Laird  ? '  pursued 


i 


I 


,^.. 


'^JT 


I  -^if 


-'/    MUini.k    CONhliSSOR         ,47 

my    ni.tlKv,    tor    uo.nuniy  cuuuhity   will  sliow  itself 
even  aiiiKl  li;;,'li  tragedy. 

"  I  rL-ckon  s(,_I  dunt  know."  and  I  lau-hcd  a.  , 
spoke;  ••  that  never  occurred  to  nie." 

"  He  didn't  ask  you  to— to  call  liirn  Gordon?" 

"  Mercy,  no— why  should  he  ?  "  I  exclaimed  a-liast. 

"Why  shouldn't    he?"  replied   my   niotlicr.     "I 
rcn^ember  the   ni-ht  your  lather  asked  me  tu  marry 
him— but  then,  tiiere's  no  use  of  that ;  that's  all  uver 
now.     When   is  he  ^r^j,,^,  to  ^pcak  to  mc  about  it 
Helen?" 

"  Oh,  mother,"  I  said,  pi.ttin^  my  arms  about  her 
neck,  "you're  such  a  woman!  I  know  you're  just 
counting  tlie  minutes  till  you'll  be  alone  with  him 
when  he's  pleading  w.th  you  to  Ljive  your  daughter  to 
lum.  That's  the  next  best  thing  to  gcitmg  a  pro- 
posal  yourself,  isn't  it,  mother?  " 

Hut  she  W.XS  not  yet  ready  for  surrender.  "  It's 
very  easy  for  you,  Helen."  .he  sa.d  seriously,  ••  to 
treat  .t  all  as  a  triHing  matter— but  j-ou  don't  know 
what  a  hea^•^■  iieart  )-o,.'ve  given  me.  And  there's 
another  thing."  she  went  on.  a  little  timidh-,  I 
thought:  "I  suppose  5-ou  don't  forget  that  his 
fothcr's  a  shepherd— a  man  that  takes  care  of  sheep, 
ou  the  hills  ?  "  she  enlarged. 

"  No,  I  haven't  forgotten  it."  I  answered,  and  I  felt 
my  colour  rising,  "  nor  has  he   forgotten.     And   I 


148 


THE    ATTIC   GUEST 


W  t 


wouldn't  care  if  his  father  were  a  chimney-sweep. 
Do  you  mean  tiiat,  mother  ?  "  I  demanded,  my  voice 
about  as  stern  as  she  had  ever  heard  it. 

"  Mean  what,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  that — about  his  father  being  a 
shepherd — should  make  any  difference  to  me  ?  When 
I  love  him  ? "  I  added,  my  voice  shaking  a  little. 

"  No,  child,  no.  No,  of  course  not,"  my  mother 
hastened  to  reply ;  "  only  it'll  be  a  little  awkward, 
I'm  afraid.  You've  got  to  consider  everything,  you 
know." 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  doing,"  I  retorted  quickly. 
"  And  if  he's  good,  and  true,  and  noble — and  he  is — 
what  difference  does  it  make  to  me  who  his  father 
is,  or  what  he  does  ?  It  won't  be  as  awkward  as  to 
be  married  to  a  man  you  don't  love — that's  what  I 
would  call  awkward,"  I  cried,  '*  and  that's  what  nearly 
happened  me.  And  he — Mr.  Laird — he  tore  the 
letter  up  and  threw  it  into  the  river,  thank  God ! "  as 
the  tears  that  could  no  longer  bt  restrained  poured 
forth  at  last. 

Her  tender  arms  tightened  about  me  as  she  soothed 
me  with  some  explanation  of  what  she  meant,  telling 
me  meantime  that  I  was  tired  and  needing  rest. 
Nor  did  the  interview  last  much  longer,  being  fruit- 
ful of  but  little  satisfaction  on  either  side.  Mother 
loved  me  too  well  to  make  any  real  unpleasantness 


) 


A    MOTHER    CONFESSOR         ,49 
about  it;  and,  before  we  finished,  she  laid  most  of  her 
grief  to  the  score  of  CharHe's  broken  heart.     But  she 
did  add.    ratlier  sorrowfully,  that   in   all  probability 
now  I  would  l^ve  and  die  without  ever  seeing  Europe. 
I   believe   there's   no  place  where  a  girl  so  feels 
the  trembling  joy  of  love  as  in  her  own  little  room 
when  first  she  returns  to  it  with  her  lips  still  moist 
from  the  sacramental  kiss.     I  have  often  wondered 
since  why  this  is  so.     And  I  do  not  know.     But  I 
remember  well,  with  quickening  heart,  that  almost 
bridal  hour.     I  did  not  light  the  gas-and  I  won- 
dered at  the  time  why  I  shrank  from  doing  so_but 
kindled   instead   the   candle   on    my   dressing-table. 
The  soft  and  tender  light  accorded  better  with  my 
mood,  and  the  flitting  shadows  that  fell  across  the 
room  seemed  beautiful.     When  I  was  undressed  and 
robed  for  the  night.  I  sat  long,  my  hair  still  flowing 
on  my  shoulders,  before  the  pier  glass,  gazing  into 
my  own  eyes  for  very  joy.     The  shallow  will  say  it 
was  empty  vanity;  but  it  was   not.     It  was  a  kind 
of  communion    time,  searching,  so  far  as    I    could, 
the  mystic  depths  of  a  personality  that  had  been  so 
suddenly  wakened  to  a  new  and  holy  life. 

I  know  aot  how  long  I  lingered  thus,  peering 
into  the  hidden  future—once  or  twice  I  buried  my 
hot  face  in  my  hands-marvelling  at  the  ministry 
of  love,   before  I  put  the   candle  out  and  went  to 


I50 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


bed.  And  then,  strangely  enough,  tliero  stole  into 
my  mind  the  verse  Charlie  used  to  love  to  hear  me 
sing.     I  hummed  it  softly  to  ni}  self : — 

"Still  must  you  call  me  tender  names 
Still  gently  stroke  my  tresses  ; 
Still  shall  uiy  happy  answering  heart 
Keep  time  to  your  caresses." 

Put  now  the  words  seemed  all  on  fire  and  I 
wondered  why  their  beauty  had  never  appeared  to 
me  before.  1  lilted  them  again  and  again,  the  image 
of  my  lover,  my  first  real  lover,  before  me  all  the 
time — and  I  wondered  when,  if  ever,  I  would  sing 
the  words  for  him. 

But  all  of  a  sudden  I  felt  that  this  was  frivolous. 
For  it  was  beginning  to  be  borne  in  upon  me — 
scarcely  thought  of  in  the  first  rush  of  joy — what 
manner  of  man  this  was  whose  lot  I  was  to  share.  I 
was  to  be  a  minister's  wife !  With  a  wave  of 
cowardice  I  hid  my  face  under  the  snowy  covers  as 
I  thought  of  it ;  while  visions  of  other  days,  of 
dances  and  parties  and  cards,  and  all  sorts  of  alien 
things,  floated  before  my  eyes.  I  fought  against 
them  all  \\ith  an  intensity  they  did  not  deserve, 
really  trying  to  lead  my  thoughts  into  higher 
channels.  And  there  came  into  my  mind — which  I 
have  always  considered  an  intervention  from  a  Higher 
Source — a  line  or  two  of  a  psalm  I  had  heard  Mr. 


f 


I 


A  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  ,5, 
Laird  sing  more  than  once.  The  words  came  back 
to  me  so  readily,  and  I  said  them  over  and  over 
again  to  myself : 

"  I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes 
From  whence  doth  come  mine  aid," 

and,  almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  slipped  out  of 
bed  and  was  on  my  knees  in  prayer.     I  must  confess 
that  I  barely  knew  how  to  pray-that  is,  outside  of 
a  httle  groove  along  which  my  devotions  had  tnpped 
since  I  was  a  child,     liut  this  time    .  really  did  pray 
-out  of  Hiy  own  heart-though  I  fear  it  was  a  very 
broken  and  halting  prayer,  a  poor  sort  of  thing  com- 
pared to  those  finished   efforts   of   Mrs.  Furvell   to 
which  my  mother  had  referred.     Yet  I  think  it  was 
sincere.     I    asked    God    to     guard    my    love-but 
especially  his-and  to  not  let  anything  happen  to 
spoil  It ;   and  to  help  me  give   up  everything  that 
was  wrong  or  frivolous,  and  to  make  me  some  help 
to  him  in  his  life-work. 

I  was  hardly  snuggled  up  in  bed  again  before  I 
heard  Mr.  Laird  coming  up-stairs  to  the  attic.  I 
suppose  he  had  been  doing  some  thinking  on  his 
own  account,  all  alone  in  the  parlour  His  room  was 
right  over  mine-and  that  was  why  I  had  such  a 
luxurious  night.  For  very  soon  lie  began  walking 
up  and  down  the  floor_I  don't  think  he  knew  I  was 
just  beneath-and  he  kept  up  that  lonely  tramp  for 


.WlfJl!^' 


152 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


liours.  Every  step  he  tuok  was  music  to  me.  Back 
and  forward,  forward  and  back,  he  walked,  and  I 
could  fairly  see  the  tall,  noble  form,  the  serious  face, 
the  deep,  penetrating  eyes.  Once  or  twice  he 
stopped,  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and  I  began  to  fear  he 
didn't  love  me  as  he  should.  But  soon  the  rirm 
tread  began  again  and  then  I  knew  how  really  dear 
I  was. 

Dozens  of  times  since  then,  when  I  have  teased 
him  about  it,  he  has  told  me  those  little  silences 
came  when  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  and  snatched 
a  few  minutes'  sleep ;  but  that  he  knew  I  was  listen- 
ing, so  he  would  shake  himself,  dash  some  cold 
water  on  his  face  or  wrap  a  towel  about  his  head, 
and  start  on  his  beat  again.  But  I  knew  better — 
and  anyhow,  he  confessed  to  me  once  that  nothing 
short  of  chloroform  could  have  kept  him  still  that 
night. 

When  we  assembled  at  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing Mr.  Laird  didn't  eat  anything  except  one  little 
half  slice  of  toast-,-and  I  could  see  how  this  appealed 
to  mother,  though  she  maintained  a  sad  gravity 
throughout. 

When  the  meal  was  finished  he  asked  mother 
if  he  might  have  a  few  minutes  with  her  alone. 
And  she  asked  him  what  could  it  possibly  be 
about ! 


i< 


:«  T.'ifr-aafi:*,^, 


XII 
THE   iVAIL  OF  THE  LOIVLY 

IT    was   "  Gordon  "   now,  always   "  Gordon  ■•-. 
though  of  course  nobody  called  him  that  but 
me.     For  he  had  made  yet  another  little  addi- 
tion to  his  visit-and  he  and  I  had  improved  the 
time.     But  his  departure  was  near  at  hand. 

And  it  does  seem  sad  that  what  occurred  had  to 
happen  just  before  he  left.     For  everything  had  gone 
so  beautifully.     Mother,  it  is  true,  used  to  sigh  some- 
times, and  once  or  twice  expressed  the   hope  that 
Charlie  hadn't  killed  himself  when  he  got  the  tidings 
and  the  ring.     I  had  no  such  fears  ;  for  the  brief  note 
that  came  back  informed  me  that  he  would  say  nothing 
till  he  came  and  saw  me;  which,  he  said,  he  would 
do  as  soon  as  some  very  urgent  business  would  per- 
mit.    But  mother  declared  she  knew  this  was  only 
said  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  prostrate  in  his 
bed. 

I  believe  Aunt  Agnes  and  Uncle  Henry  were  quite 
composed  about  the  whole  afiair-they  thought  so 
much  of  Gordon.  And  even  mother  was  getting  fond 
of  h.m  ;  she  couldn't  very  well  have  helped  it.  he  was 

153 


-■"^fflraaiSffZ3»K:;i3iiB8L'^r  't:3«»T!3^:.s»r>jr 


'54 


■THE   A  77 IC    CUI:S7 


so  stroll-  and  tender  and  di-niiicd  and  tru-j.     And  I 
can't  tell  liuw  happy  it  made  nu;  io.vc  niuUicr  uarm- 
in-  up  to  him  ;  a  few  days  be:  .re  he  intended  to  go 
away—and  the  very  day  of  the  explosion  I  am  abotit 
lo  describe— I  saw  motlier  pull  his  hair.     Just  a  little 
tug,  it's  true,  a  little  playful  puich  of  a  feu-  of  the 
auburn  strands— but  it  filled  my  soul  with  joy,  for  I 
think  it  means  more  for  certain  kinds  of  women  to 
give  the  hair  a  little  pull  hkc  that  than  if  they  took 
the  whole  man  into  their  arms.     So  I  pretended  not 
to  see,  lest  my  Gordon's  hair  should  never  be  pulled 
again. 

U'e  were  all  pretty  resigned,  as  I  have  said— es- 
pecially Gordon  and  myself.  And  if  Gordon  had  only 
gotten  away  to  his  Canadian  field  before  that  event- 
ful night— or  if  every  negro  in  the  South  had  only 
died  or  been  deported  the  day  before- the  whole 
tenor  of  our  after  lives  might  have  been  changed. 

We  were  seated  on  the  porch,  uncle  and  Gordon 
and  I.  My  mood,  I  fear,  was  a  rather  plaintive  one, 
for  I  didn't  know  when  my  lover  would  be  coming 
back.  Uncle,  however,  seemed  in  a  very  jovial  frame 
of  mind;  but  the  worst  storms  always  come  on  the 
most  placid  evenings.  He  had  just  been  telling 
Gordon  that  he  thought  I  would  make  a  pretty  fair 
minister's  wife  after  all. 
'•  You  know,  Mr.  Laird,"  he  remarked   in   mock 


^1"      ll\1li      „f      7,,,,      IQ^y,     Y  |„ 

"■'""-«  m.  tl.i.k  sl.cs  ,-i.,l,t  ,.di.,„„,  „,,,,  „„  ., 

",  •"  "'  l--^-  ll.c  sy„,p,o,„,s,"  ,aiJ  G,„-j„„,  ,„j  ,,^ 
c  H,.ln  t  l,av.  W|<..d  ,.  „,c  more  U-ndedy  if  he  hadn't 
'"' ■  .'7  °'^'"="'^"  Wood  in  I,i3  ,v],oIc  makcn,,,. 

••^^'-•.''^tl,iCdra„W,„yu„c!c;..lv.nc.v.r 

l->o>vn  U.  en  .o  ,„i«  a  S„„day-scl>ooI  picnic  .i„c= 

>N.  was  aWc.  to  toddlc-.l.c'd  ,o  >vitl,o„t  h„  lessons 

-re    shed    „n«    one.      X„.    don't    yon    .„i„k 

.a.s  a  good  s,sn?  ■•  and  uncle  indulged  himself  in 

U.e  merrnnent  his  little  joke  deserved 

Gordon  made  son.e  laughing  response,  I  have  for- 

r;"  "■'"'■  Z^"''  i' "-'I- that  uncle  began  the 
fatal  stram,     't  really  seemed  as  if  it  had  to  k  ;  for 

-rsmee  that  other  darkey  outbreak,  both  men  had' 

be  ncarefu  to  steer  clear  of  the  dangerous  topic. 

Vouii    Lave  to  look  out,"  uncle  began,  ..that 
those   folks  up  North  Acr.;  , 

p  morth  dont  tramp  on  your  wife's 

Su  hern  corns."     Gord.  ,  gave  me  a  funny  look- 

.e.her,t  referred  to  the  sublime  word,  or  the  gro- 
t«q-  one.  I  couldn't  tell.     ..  For   instance,"    uLe 

«nt  on,  ..the  firs,  thing  you  know,  some  of  them'l 
be  e.x-pressing  their  opinion  about  slavery  and  airing 
"ten  v,ews  on  the  whole  question   of  .he   darkies 
Now  I  >vant  yon  to  protect  her  from  tI,at-don't  let 
ftem  bnng  the  subject  up  if  yon  can  help  it.    And 
Jfst  as  hke  as  not,  they'll  be  Haunting  that  Uncle  Tom',' 


1^6 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


Cabin  nigger  show  under  your  noses.  There  was  a 
company  brought  it  down  here  once — but  we  read 
the  riot  act  to  them.  It  was  '  Katy,  bar  the 
door '  for  them.  Some  of  them  just  got  off  with 
their  necks.  And  I  want  you  to  pr  nise  me,  Helen, 
that  you'll  never  look  at  their  infernal  show  ;  they 
say  it's  all  whips,  and  handcufls,  and  bloodhounds, 
and  ail  the  rest  of  the  lies  that  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 
concocted.     You'll  promise  me,  won't  you,  Helen?" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that,  uncle,"  I  an- 
swered evasively,  being  always  a  cautious  maiden 
along  certain  lines  ;  "  most  likely  Mr.  Laird  doesn't 
know  what  you're  talking  about.  Do  you,  Gordon  ?  " 
I  enquired,  the  change  of  name  very  sweet. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  promptly  replied.  "  Yes,  I've  read 
the  book — read  it  on  the  heathery  hills,  when  I  was 
quite  a  wee  laddie." 

"  Did  you  ever  read  such  a  parcel  of  lies,sir  ?  "  de- 
manded my  uncle,  fully  expecting  that  there  could 
be  only  one  answer. 

"  I'm  really  not  in  a  position  to  give  an  opinion," 
Gordon  replied  judiciously  ;  "  you  see,  I  never  saw 
slavery." 

'*  Well,  I  have,"  uncle  responded  vigorously,  "  and 
the  book's  a  bunch  of  lies.  Of  course,  I  suppose  same 
brutes  might  mistreat  their  niggers.  But  it  wasn't 
natural,  sir — it  wasn't  to  their  interest  to  do  so — a 


The    li//IIL    of   The    L  O  IV  L  Y      157 

man  xvouldn'tdo  it  with  his  horse.  And  the  niggers 
were  enough  sight  happier  then  Hum  they  are  now— 
they  were  perfectly  contented,  sir." 

'•  That's  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Gordon  tersely. 

"  What  say.  sir?  I  don't  know  that  I  understand 
you." 

"  That  was  the  saddest  feature  of  it-that  they  u;cn' 
contented,"  repeated  Gordon  calmly;  -  that's  what 
slavery  did  for  them.  But  it  seems  to  me.  Mr. 
Lundy."  he  went  on,  warming  a  little  to  the  argument, 
'•  it  seems  to  me  the  book  in  question  doesn't  deny 
that  most  of  the  negroes  were  well  used." 

"  It  doesn't?"  uncle  began  in  a  rather  fiery  tone  • 
••it  doesn't,  doesn't  it?  It's  the  most  one-sided 
book  that  was  ever  written-has  niggers  dying  un- 
der the  lash,  and  hunted  with  hounds,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  What's  that,  if  it  isn't  one-sided 
sir?" 

"As  far  as  I  remember,  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  '  im- 

pressed    me    as    decidedly    fair,    quite    impartial." 

Gordon  ventured,  his  voice  very  calm. 

"  It's  a  pack  of  Yankee  lies,  sir."  interrupted  my 
uncle  warmly. 

Gordon  flushed  a  little.  "  That's  hardly  argument, 
Mr.  Lundy,"  he  replied  slowly.  "  You  remind  me' 
of  what  Burke  said  of  Samuel  Johnson-he  said 
Johnson's  style   of   argument   reminded   him   of  a 


|!,S 


THE   ATTIC   GUI:  ST 


highwayman  ;  if  his  pi.tol  missed  fire,  lie  knocked 
you  down  with  the  butt  end  uf  it." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  niggers  ?"  enquired 
my  uncle  blankly. 

"  Nothing — ^jiist  with  the  argument,"  answered 
Gordon.  "  I  said  I  thought '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  ' 
impressed  me  as  impart-al — and  you  retorted  it  was 
Yankee  lies.  That's  like  calling  Euclid  a  liar  be- 
cause you  dissent  from  his  proposition,  as  your  great 
Lincoln  said." 

"  He  wasn't  ours — and  he  isn't  great,"  retorted 
uncle  vigorously. 

"  Half  of  that  may  be  true,"  Gordon  answered  in 
the  most  amiable  tone.  "  Hut  about  the  book — I'll 
slate  my  position.  Mrs.  Stowe  portra)s  three  men, 
if  I  remember  right,  who  had  to  do  with  slaves. 
Shelby,  St.  Clair,  Legree,  were  the  r.  es,  I  think. 
Well,  one  of  them,  Legree,  is  depict  as  a  brute — 
but  the  other  two  were  like  fathers  to  their  slaves. 
Now,  if  that  isn't  fair — two  to  one — I  don't  know 
what  is,"  concluded  Gordon  placidly,  "  especially  as 
you've  just  admitted  yourself  that  the  brutal  tjpe 
was  always  to  be  found,  even  if  the  exception." 

I  /as  growing  nervous  by  this  time,  and  uith 
abundant  cause.  It  was  with  a  sense  of  hearty 
relief  I  heard  Aunt  Agnes  hurrying  towards  the 
porch  ;  and  before  the  argument  could  further  go, 


: 


^•-MKB&. 


Tl'r    Il-All.    01    The    L 


OWLY        ,S9 


-sl.c  bleu-  in  upon  the  scene  with  tiJin^s  of  an  invi- 
t-'t.on  sl.c  I.ad  just  received  fur  ...e  and  Gordon  for 
tl'al  ^ery  c•veni^^^  I  ua.n't  sl..u-  to  n,al<e  ti.e 
">o>t  o»  the  di^^rcsion.  an<i  so.u,  tl,.  :-h,p  ol  durne^Uc 
peace  uas  clear  of  l!,c  threatcnui-  ruc^.s. 

Vet   1   could   see.  all   throu^ii  "the  early  cvenu.-^ 
that   the   debate  had    left   its  iu.pre.s  upon  Gordon! 
It  wa:;  really  u„nderful  hou-  a   cp.eMion  of  tlus  kind 
took  hold   of    him;    anything   luunau.  especially  if 
connected  uith   sorro^v  or  injustice,  seen.ed  to  kindle 
h""  as  nothing  else  could  do.     More  than  once  ho 
harked  back  to  it  within  the  next  hour  or  tuo  when 
he  and  I  uce  alone.     «  Ifs  beyond  ,ny  understand- 
>njT. '   he   brok .  out.   .<  how  any  nuu,-especially  a 
Chnst.an  gentleman  Hke  your  uncle-can  defend  an 
institution  that  made  one  man  a  slave  of  another." 
"  liut  they  were  good  to  them,"  I  defended. 


Vet  they  were  in  bond 


and  besides,  Hcl 


».i;e,"  was  his  terse  reply 


sell   t 


tall 


le 


«-'n,  you  know  ihcy  often  had  to 


m_even   when    they  didn't    want   to.     I' 


Iced     to    coloured    wonief 
who    tol.j  me  their  childr 
them 


en 


on    the    streets    lu  e, 
were  sold    away   f  oni 


long  years   a-o— and  they've  never 


since.     And  they  cried."  he  added,  1 


seer    hem 


what 


us  voice  ta..ii 


w 


IS  almost  a  shrill  note,  plaintive  with 


sym- 


Pathy.     -And   I  don't  care  if  they  did  keep  thci 


sla\ 


es  in  luxury— if  they  had  clothed 


them 


in  purple 


l^«8«rS=TIIT 


l6o 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


I  \'  a<=  iilii!. 
and  1  .  < .  , 
chill  ioi  .-bod. 
that  hi    strr^p. 


t>' 


and  fine  'ii^  n  and  fanned  them  all  day  lonf^ — any 
inb'itu  I  •'■>  '•■■'  '■t  makes  it  possible  for  a  clu.d  to  be 
sold  I;,  n  I'..'  mother,  it's — it's  damnable,"  he  dc- 
clarec  i'.«  'o  atcly,  "  and  neither  God  nor  rian 
could     .)!! V.  me  tf-  the  contrary." 

-i' ,1.  J  at  Gordon's  vehemence — 
.  before  his  argument.  A  kind  ol 
d  me  in  its  grip,  I  knew  not  why, 

iui:  nsity  on  this  so  fiery  tlicme  \va- 
yet  to  work  us  ill.  For,  like  other  strangers,  he  had 
no  conception  of  how  deep,  almost  desperately  <leep, 
were  the  convictions  of  Southern  men  on  the  subject 
that  seemed  so  thoroughly  to  engross  him.  He 
harb(3ured  the  romantic  notion  that  all  men  ucie 
created  equal,  as  the  framers  of  our  Constitution  sol- 
emnly decreed,  their  slaves  cringing  at  their  feet  the 
while.  He  held  the  quixotic  view,  too,  that  it  w  a:^ 
wrong  to  cheat  the  darkies  out  of  tlieir  votes — 1  always 
thought  he  was  astray  on  this  point,  and  I  think  so 
yet.  Gordon  contended,  also,  that  they  had  the  ^  mic 
kind  of  feelings  as  white  folks — but  I  suppos-  tlia 
will  be  a  debated  point  while  time  shall  last.  Gordon 
did  not  know,  however,  how  necessary  it  was  tliat  ihe 
darkies  should  be  kept  in  their  proper  place  ;  nor  did 
he  know  the  long  purgatory  our  Southland  had  gone 
through  in  the  days  of  reconstruction,  and  carpetbag- 
gers, and  negro  rule,  and  ail  that  sort  of  thing.     He 


-..  f^^ 


7A^    iV^/L    Of    The    LOl^LY 


lud  no  idea  of  the  fie 


161 


ry  ^cal  with  which  white 


men 

distinction    keef)ii.,,  fi.  social 

'-   *^ccp,ui,'  the  negro  where  he  belonL^ed 
piously  preserving  the  curse  of  11.  \      ''"^*-''' 

^' ""- '-"'^=''- "' Ham  ujion  him      Inn 

■C.  the  world  „,.,  ,.,^,.,„"^- 

''"'■  "■:  """^^  >-  '"<•■  negro  .cc  „,ay  prcdo  j    1^ 
...  numbers,  or  g™„.  .„  health,  or  dcvl'p  ,„  ""cm 
Cence,  .He  w„,e  „.a„  never  .iU  be  ruled  „,  . l"      ^ 
".an      And  ,l,e  only  way  .„  preven.  ,,s  being  „     op 
.okcephto  at  .he  bottom      So  n,ave  hL;     „' 
thousand  fmes-and  so  I  heartily  beheve 

JtUrtf^T  "'  '  '""  '"■^^"^^■"^  '"-  -y 
.er  that  „,gh,  as  we  were  walking  home  from  the 

uttle  gathenng  of  which  I  have  made  mention  already 
Commg  along  the  street  that  skirts  the  river  my  a^' 
Tr  ""  :''"•">■  ^"--^  'y  'H"ou„d  o'fTicet 

„,r     T  ^  °  ""'"'  ="«'•  "-•■B"  -,ces   evident  ; 
and  marked  by   tokens  of  excitement      I  at  orj' 

^."Pped  and  called  Crdon's  attention  to., 

■■n.eyre  darkies,",  „,,ispered;..  what' can  they 

l'..do,„g.|,ereat,hishourofthenigh,;."     For  ;, 
m.daight.     ••An^,!,,..         ,,  toritv/as 

"    ■  enou.h  ,     K  "■"'""•-'''''  P^l-^y."  which  was 
-  enough,  he  be.ng  the  possessor  of  a  shed  and 

What  mdeed?"   Gordon   echoed. 


=l'tct  anytlM„3  "ro.:g,  do  you  ? 


You  don't 


1 62 


7 HE   ATTIC    GUEST 


! 


I  made  some  incoherent  reply,  muttering  some- 
thing about  fire,  I  think.  For  that  is  a  constant  form 
of  dread  to  the  Southern  mind. 

"  I'll  go  over  and  see,"  said  Gordon.  "  You  come 
part  of  the  way — wait  there,  I  won't  let  you  out  of  my 
sight,"  as  he  moved  on  towards  the  shadowy  figures 
that  could  be  seen  moving  in  the  darkness.  A  low 
mysterious  wail  broke  from  them  at  frequent  inter- 
vals. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  I  heard  Gordon'^ 
stern  Scotch  voice  ring  out  a  moment  after  he  li.i  i 
left  me.  A  i,harp  cry  of  fear  broke  from  the  two 
crouching  forms  as  they  turned  their  dusky  faces  u;) 
to  his  through  the  night.  They  were  two  nei^r.! 
women  and  their  rolling  eyes  shone  white  in  tiic 
darkness.     They  stood  before  him  trembling. 

"  Come,  speak  ;  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  Gor- 
don's voice  came  sterner  than  before. 

*'  Please,  sah,  we's  lookin'  fo'  our  chil'uns,"  one 
liquid  voice  wailed  forth. 

I  was  Southern  born  and  Southern  bred — and  I  had 
been  taught,  as  carefully  as  any,  the  non-humanity  of 
the  black.  Yet  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  felt  such  a 
gush  of  inward  tears  as  rushed  upon  my  heart  that 
moment.  The  scene  is  before  me  yet ;  the  stalwart 
frame  in  clerical  attire,  towering  above  the  cowed  and 
obeisant  figures  of  the  stooping  women  who  seemed 


The   [VAIL   of  The   LOWLY      ,6, 
to  crave   rather  than  expect,  some  word  of  hu„,a„ 
syn,pathy,someha„dofhu„,a„help.    Poor,  despised 
.gnorant,  .heir  cry  ye.  echoed  wi.h  .he  grea.  „o,e  o; 
ove,  .he  .hrob  of  pri^ai  passion  pulsing  .hrou  J  i. 
the  age.o,d  cry  of  «,e  mother  calling  for  her  ^hild.' 
And  I  fel.  a  w,veof  pi.y  surging  over  me,  such  as  I 

^tood ,  for  ,h.  .,me,  a.  leas.,  „e  belonged  .„  the  self- 
same  race-mine,  too,  was  a  woman's  heart 

rhe,r  s.o,y  was  soon  .old,  for  i,  „,^  brief     The 
two  ch,Ure„,  a  son  of  each,  had  been  out  playing  .o- 

named  S.mkms,  had  been  seen  talk,„g  to  them.  Sim- 
kms  was  a  drunken  loafer.  The  unhappy  women  had 
themselves  d.scovered  .ha.  a  li,.Ie  skifT,  in  which  Sim- 
kms  had  a  par.  interest,  was  missing  from  its  placc- 
and  .he  tracks  of  boyish  fee.  in  the  .sand  could  be  seen 
"here  .he  bow  of  the  boa.  had  been.  Doubtless 
i.mktns  had  beguiled  them  with  the  prospect  of  a 
cruise—and  what  then  ? 

In  a  moment  Gordon  was  questioning  them  with 
eagermterest,  interpreting  .heir  rephes  wi.h  difficulty  ■ 
for  thetr  dialect,  unfamiliar  to  hiu,  at  the  best  was' 
nowmoreunintelligiblebyreasonoftheirgrief.  While 
he  spoke  with  them  the  women  instinctively  drew 
tloser.asifco.-iJcntofafnend 


164 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


"  Where  do  you  suppose  he  rowed  them  to  ?  "  he 
asked  quickly. 

The  women  didn't  know. 

"  Where  does  this  man  Simkins  live  ?  "  he  asked, 
after  some  further  questioning. 

"  'Way  down  by  Pickett's  Landin' — by  de  long 
wauf,"  one  of  the  women  said.  "  But  he  done  started 
from  heah,  sah." 

•<  The  long  wharf,"  repeated  Gordon,  turning  to 
me,  "where  is  that  wharf?  For  that's  where  he'd 
try  to  land,  likely  enough— and  if  anything's  hap- 
pened, that's  where  it  likely  occurred." 

"  I  know  the  place,"  I  answered,  "  but  it's  about  a 
mile  away." 

"  We'll  search  this  place  first,"  he  said  decisively, 
"  and  if  we  find  no  sign  we'll  look  there.  Have  you 
any  idea  where  we  could  get  a  lantern  ?  " 

I  thought  there  might  possibly  be  one  in  uncle's 
warehouse.  A  minute  later  Gordon  was  inside,  hav- 
ing found  an  unlocked  window.  Two  or  three 
matches  flared  and  spluttered  ;  then  a  steady  light, 
and  in  a  moment  he  had  reappeared  with  the 
lantern. 

Up  and  down  he  strode,  examining  all  the 
locality,  the  moaning  women  following  at  his  heels. 

"  There  isn't  a  sign  of  anything  here,"  he  an- 
nounced as  he  jumped  down  from  a  little  landing 


'^'■'  ""^'L  Of  THe  LOUDLY  ,65 
from  >vhich  he  had  been  n.hi„,  his  UnCern  „„  ,he 
«ater.  ,  ve  gc  a  feehng,  somehow,  that  .his  man 
Simkms  would  try  to  land  at  the  wharf  „  T 
home.    Come  away-we'i,  go  .,!e Je  '  "'"'  "" 

^^•Jutycu'Uhave.otakemehomefi.t,"Ii„te,. 

^^■•^I.i.o„theway,..Gordo„  paused  long  enough 

"  No,  it's  the  opposite  direction  " 

■•Then  it  can't  be  done,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone 
no  Southern  woman  is  accustomed  to  hea      ••    '  „" 

rr:me:::r;r::::'tr"^='""="^'"-- 

to  take      in,-  "■°'"^"  '''^''^^'  '■oad 

o  take     If  h,s  manner  had  been  less  noble  and  self- 

M  I  would  have  said  he  was  lackinjne 
chivalnc  deference  I  „•,. 

the  h.„l      r  ^""stomed  to  receive  at 

cg"     ,'""""■     ^"""- — cemed  ,0 
enter  Gordons  mn,d,  surrendered  as    it  was  to  the 

-ne.,,„„and.  Before  IW  it  he  was  of^  a!d 
'  had  no  option  but  to  follow. 

A  stransc  procession  we  must  have  made  as  we 
"ound  our  way  through  the  silent  streets      I„  fro„! 

™  Cordon,  the  lantern  swu,g,„gtoh,s::i 
r     "^  now  and  then  to  enquire  about  a  turn  in 

eraftude    and    woe    mingling    ,„     .fc,,,    „„3,^__; 


m^ 


i66 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


i:l 


moan ;  last  of  all  came  1,  keeping  up  as  best  I 
could. 

As  we  moved  out  on  the  rickety  wharf,  to  which 
we  came  at  last,  I  heard  Gordon  utter  an  exclama- 
tion of  some  sort  and  rush  forward.  Then  he 
stopped,  holding  the  lantern  low ;  its  beams  re- 
vealed the  face  of  a  negro  man,  lying  in  drunken 
oblivion  on  the  wharf.  With  shrill  intonation, 
rudely  sliaking  him,  the  women  demanded  of  the 
unconscious  Simkins  the  whereabouts  of  their 
children.  But  Simkins'  only  response  was  a 
temporarily  half-opened  eye,  immediately  reclosed, 
and  a  groan  of  drunken  content  as  he  sank  deeper 
into  his  bestial  slumber.  An  empty  bottle  lay  be- 
side him. 

Gordon  turned  from  him  with  a  murmur  of 
contempt,  bidding  tht  women  cease  from  their 
pitiful  pleading  with  the  unconscious  man.  Swing- 
ing the  lantern  high,  its  farthest  beams  just  disclosed 
a  little  skiff  floating  idly  near  the  shore.  "  He'-^ 
upset  it  climbing  out,  as  sure  as  death,"  I  heard 
him  mutter — "  it  has  shot  out  from  under  him." 
Then  like  a  flash  he  made  his  way  over  the  side, 
creeping  stealthily  down  the  unsteady  timbers  till 
he  was  at  the  water's  edge,  the  lantern  still  in  his 
hand. 

A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  his  lips,  echoed  in  un- 


The    WAIL   oj    The   LOWLY        xt-j 

reasoning  woe  from  the  wu.neii  above  him.     He  was 
peering  down  into  the  water. 

"They're   there_in    each    others'   arm.."   broke 
from   h.m   a   moment   later   m   a  tone  of  ineffable 
sadness.      .-Come     down    and     hold    the    lantern. 
Helen."     He  reached  up  his  hand  to  me  without 
a  word  ;   and,  to  the  accompaniment  of  sounds  of 
anguish   strangely  and    suddenly  subdued.  I  clam- 
bered down  till  I  stood  on  the  broad  beam  bes.de 
him.     Still  the  strange,   low  chant  went  on  above 
us.    still    the    silent    stars    looked    down.     Slowly 
resolutely,     still     gazing    into    the    placid    depths.' 
Gordon  removed  his   coat   and   vest   while   I   held 
the  lantern   as   he   directed.     But   I  kept  my  eyes 
upward  to  the  sta...     A  swift  plunge,  a  half  minute's 
s.  ence.  and    he    reappeared,    one    of    the   hapless 
playmates  in  his  hand.     A  second  pilgrimage  into 
the  depths,  and  both   were  side  by  s.de  upon  the 
beam  on  which  we  stood.     One   by  one.   he   bore 
them    climbing,   and    laid    them    together   on   the 
wharf     With   loud  outcry   of  anguish   the   women 
^^ng  themselves  upon  their  unresponsive  dead 

Ihey  lay  together,  those  little  ofTshoots  of  an  un- 
happy race,  their  own  life  tragedy  past  and  done 
I^npping  they  lay.  the  peace  of  death  upon  their 
races,  as  though  the  relentless  wave  had  given  them 
kindly  welcome.     About  eight  or  nine  years  of  age 


ra»ir%"s\.«'": 


.T  y-jfcifu-oi 


i68 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


poor,  ragged,  despised,  they  had  yet  been  seeking 
some  scant  share  of  pleasure — out  to  play — when 
death  claimed  them  for  his  own.  It  was  the  birthday 
of  one  of  them — so  his  mother  said,  while  each  wailed 
abo\e  her  own — and  that  was  why  they  had  been 
permitted  to  play  late.  Each  had  her  simple  tale 
of  love,  of  admiration;  each  told,  with  alterna- 
ting gusts  of  grief,  of  the  goodness  of  her  own.  Each 
spoke  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  at  home ;  each 
wondered  what  life  would  be  without  the  one  who 
was  gone. 

I  stood,  helpless.  But  I  saw,  and  for  the  first  time, 
that  God  had  called  Gordon  to  be  a  pastor.  Eor  he 
knelt  beside  them — I  think  sometimes  his  dripping 
white-clad  arm  rested  gently  on  the  shoulder  of  one 
or  the  other — and  he  tried  to  comfort  them.  He 
spoke,  so  low  and  tenderly  that  sometimes  I  could 
scarcely  hear  his  voice,  of  many  things;  most  of 
which  I  have  forgotten.  But  I  do  remember  that  he 
said  God  didn't  love  them  any  less  than  they  ;  and  I 
recall  yet  how  wonderfully  he  spoke  of  Everlasting 
Life.  Those  very  words,  and  he  couldn't  have  said 
them  more  grandly  if  it  had  been  a  Cathedral  service. 
And  I  think  he  helped  them  a  little,  for  they  some- 
times lifted  their  heads  and  looked  at  him  in  a  dumb, 
grateful  way.  But  their  hearts  were  broken.  It 
came  over  me  strangely  that  this  was  the  first  time  I 


■ri-e  WAIL  of  The  LOiVLY  ,69 
'«<)  ever  stood  so  close  ,0  death,  and  ,0  sorrow_a„d 
these  mourners  were  of  the  dusky  race 

There  was  ii.tle  more  ,l,a,  we  could  do.     Of  course 
Gordon    roused  son.ebody  and  sent  fur  ..,e  proper' 
P-ons.     «^.  finally  we  l,ad  to  leave  tl,e,n  a  on      1 
wn,e„  and  t.,e,r  dead.     Silently,  as  Ifl.e  were' r 
volvtng  some  thought  in  which  1  had  no  share  Go. 
don  walked  home  beside  me.     Only  one  thingl  ca , 
-ember  that  he  said,    I  .h,„k  he  stood  sfil  a, 
looked  at  me  through  the  d.,rk  as  he  said  if 
•■Helen  the  Kble  says  that  God  made  of  one  blood 

all  the  „at,o„s  of  the  earth,  doesn't  it?" 
•■  Ves,"  I  agreed,  wondering  what  wa.  coming. 
They  don't  believe  it  down  here  do  thev  ?     M 
white  folks,  I  mean?"  e,  do  they  ?_the 

re  kon  hey  don  t  thinkifs  meant  .0  be  takenliterally' ■ 

•Perhaps  not,"  and  his  eyes  glowed  like  fire  and 
l>'Svo,ce  cut  like  steel;. .perhaps  not-but  Hes 
Go^d     :°"^'r  »"""=-*- °f'"e  earth     ; 

°hL  l^::etrj:.r"---'■p-.™a: 

deed  it  was.  '"  '"°"^'-     ^^''"^"  '"- 

dir:c2'of"'"V''"'"'^"'^"''^''''""«'-"S-"'e 

fh.  A      T  '  ^''''^°"'  ^"'<^^''  ^vhafs  that  ?  "  as 

the  dread  sound  fell  upon  my  ear  again. 


17©  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

For  a  dread  sound  it  was  indeed.  J  do  not  know 
that  I  had  ever  heard  it  before— certainly  not  more 
than  once,  and  then  when  but  a  child — but  it  had  the 
awful  note  that  can  be  best  described  as  the  baying 
of  furious  and  avenging  men.  The  Southern  heart,  I 
fancy,  would  recognize  it  anywhere,  just  as  a  hunts- 
man's child  would  know  the  far-ofT  voice  of  hounds. 
I  have  heard  many  sounds  since  then,  sounds  that 
might  well  strike  terror  to  the  stoutest  heart,  but  none 
so  fraught  with  the  savage  omen  of  death  and  doom 
as  the  voice  of  strong  and  noble  men  when  they  are 
maddened  with  revengeful  hate  and  aflame  with  thirst 
for  blood. 

Gordon  was  already  hurrying.  "  Good  heavens," 
I  heard  him  murmur  as  we  turned  a  sudden  jog  in 
the  road,  "  what  a  furious  scene !  They're  mad, 
Helen,  they're  mad,"  he  cried  as  we  hurried  closer ; 
"  what  on  earth  means  this  ? — look,  they've  got  a 
halter  round  the  wretch's  neck." 

"  Take  me  home,"  I  said  faintly,  pointing  towards 
the  house,  now  but  a  feu  yards  from  us. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  I  say  ?  "  he  repeated  huskily, 
pressing  on  as  though  he  did  not  hear. 

"It  means  death,"  I  faltered;  "they're  gting  to 

kil!  him Oh  !  take  me  home,"  as  I  clutched  his 

arm  and  staggered  half  fainting  towards  the  door. 


■■^^^-'  '• 


XUl 
"THE  LYNCHING 

NEEDLESS  to  say  the  household  was  astir 
tor  our  house  had  a  fatal  location_at  least' 

so  It  proved  that  night-standing  as  it  did 

-aqu.etpar,ofthetownclose,othe4bridg 
*^t  spanned  the  river.    And  the  crowd  wasla  j; 
for  the  bndge ;  th,s  was  to  serve  as  a  scaffold 

Uncle   was    not  at  home.     He  had  gone  forth 
about    midnight,  as    rny   aunt    told    me     A    f^ 

xplam  the  cause  of  his  absence,  and  to  tell  them 
no.  to  expect  him  till  they  saw  him.     „is  eyes     er^ 
^ood.„ot,  my  mother  said,  and  his  lips  were  dr^ 
Ye.  u,,c,e  was  the  most  peaceable  of  men-but  thfs 
one  .a,„g  seems  to  make  savages  out  of  .he  mildest 
Of  Southern  gentlemen.     It  was  the  old  .„ory  •  tht 

::  f  a  „  ""^^   '-'  '''''""'  '    ™-"  -  ^ 
trect,  a  poor  ,g„ora„,  white  girl  who  had  been  sit- 

■ng  up  with  a  sick  friend,  and  who  thought  she 

separated  her  from  her  home.    He  had  dragged  her 
.nto  an  alley-but  God  sent  somebody. 

'1' 


--mwjs; 


173 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


None  of  these  infuriated  men— and  they  com- 
prised the  flower  of  our  population,  many  of  them 
men  of  wealth  and  culture — had  ever  heard  of  the 
woman  upon  whom  the  black  had  attempted 
violence.  But  this  matttred  not — had  she  been  the 
beauty  of  the  city,  or  the  belle  of  the  South  itself, 
their  fury  could  not  have  been  greater.  She  was 
white ;  he  was  black — tliat  was  enough,  esteemed  by 
them  as  a  warrant  from  God  Himself.  For  no 
thought  of  the  right  or  wrong  of  their  deadly  zeal 
ever  took  possession  of  their  minds.  No  knight  of 
the  middle  ages  was  ever  more  sincere  in  the  ardour 
that  gave  the  Crusades  their  glory.  If  ever  men  be- 
lieved they  were  doing  God  service,  they  were  these 
hot-hearted  men  who  hurried  their  trembling  sacri- 
fice onward  to  the  bridge. 

My  aunt  had  put  out  the  lights ;  whether  to 
render  the  house  less  conspicuous,  or  to  help  us  see 
the  better,  I  do  not  know.  For  few  words  passed  as 
the  three  white  faces  peered  out  at  the  wild  scene 
before  us.  The  moon  had  risen  now,  and  we  cou!d 
see  the  faces  of  some  of  the  men,  though  many  were 
in  masks.  A  peculiar  quietness  seemed  to  come 
over  the  throng  as  they  came  closer  to  the  bridge, 
once  so  tense  that  we  could  catch  distinctly  the 
pleading  wail  of  the  central  figure,  tugging  desper- 
ately at  the  rope  around  his  neck.     Poor  creature, 


Z'm>  .^Ri'- 


r»jsm  ^immmat'''m^ 


THE  L  YNCHINa  ,„ 

he  knew  no.  ,h.  ways  of  Southern  ,ncn ;  or  perhaps 

h.  d.d_a„a  ye,  one  drownin, „a.„,,,„  „,„„lj 

Still  swim  tinvards  tJic  shore. 

W-c.  .a.v  them  drag  the  miserable  culpr.t  on  to 
the  br,d,e-thc„  we  turned  away.  I  suppose  every 
boutliern  woman  would  cry  out  in  horror  at  the 
thought  of  followmg  them  thus  far-and  every  one 
would  have  done  the  same  as  we.  Vet  now  we 
turned,  faint,  from  the  window^tlut  last  dread 
scene  was  for  other  eyes  than  ours. 

But  suddenly  we  heard  a  mighty  shout,  marvelhng 
what  U  might  portend.  A  kind  of  gleeful  cry  .t 
was  as  if  something  had  been  discovered,  or  some 

better  plan  devised;  which  proved  to  be  the  case 
I'or       looked  again,  and  lo  !  they  were  bearing  the 
wretch   back   from   the   bridge.     A  swift  visio'    of 
mercy  quickened  my  heart,  for   I  took  this  to  be  a 
reprieve.     Vet  the  doomed  man  seemed  reluctant  to 
be  moved,  clinging  desperately  to  the  railing  of  the 
bndge     for  his  hands   were  free.     The  rope  about 
h's  neck  tightened  as  they  dragged  him  back,  an.' 
when  It  relaxed  I  could  hear  his  piteous  appeals 
breaking   now  into   loud    wails   of  anguish.     They 
dragged  him  on. 

In  a  moment  all  was  clear.     A  large  post,  or  nnle 
stood   close   beside  the  bridge;    towards  this  'they' 
hauled  him.  new  zeal  seeming  to  animate  the  breast 


^■■>.>ifV. 


'74 


THE   A'T'TIC   GUEST 


of  every  executioner.  I  saw  two  oi  three  of  the 
younjicr  men  running  towards  the  pole.  They  luid 
something  in  their  arms.  It  was  wood — and  a  hot 
flush  came  over  me  from  head  to  foot, 

"  Oh,  God,"  I  moaned  to  myself,  "  they're  going  to 
burn  him,"  and  even  as  I  spoke  they  were  tying  the 
strugglmg  man  tight  to  the  post,  others  piling  the 
wood  up  about  him. 

In  an  instant  all  was  ready — and  I  caught  the 
gleam  of  a  lighted  match.  I  stood,  transfixed  with 
horror.  Then  I  felt  my  aunt  and  my  mother  tug- 
ging faintly  at  my  dress,  clutching  at  my  arm,  their 
faces  averted  meantime. 

"  Come  away ;  for  God's  sake,  come  away,"  they 
pleaded,  faint  and  sick  at  he?.rt. 

I  was  j  st  obeying  and  had  already  turned  from 
the  window,  when  I  heard  a  shout,  full  of  savage 
wrath  and  protest— whereat  I  turned  and  looked 
once  more. 

And  my  eyes  fell  on  a  scene  that  even  yet,  after 
all  the  intervening  years,  I  cannot  recall  without  a 
bounding  heart.  For  suddenly  from  out  the  crowd 
there  had  rushed  one  man,  tall,  powerful,  clothed  in 
black,  his  face  as  savage  as  the  others,  though  it  was 
savagery  of  a  different  sort.  He  lias  told  me  since 
— thougli  we  have  only  spnken  of  it  once  or  twice 
through  all  the  years— that  his  own  life  was  as  noth- 


'^^VM 


«^ 


.4W*4 


THE    I.  YNCHlUa 


'75 


ing  to  him  that  inclii      II,.    . 
.     ,       ,  """ism.     'Ic  »a>v  nothiiic  but  hun- 

dreds of  bloodthirsty   „,..„  „„l  r 

,n,l  ,1,.  <:    .  ,  ""•"•a"d  one  guilty  wretch, 

nd  the  .the.  or- flame  ah,,.,,  his  feet.  Out  fro,, 
<  crowd  had  Gordon  ru.h.J  „i,h  s„UJ,„  i„,p„,,,, 
..i.d.  when  n,y  eyes  fell  on  h„„,  the  sticks  and  fag- 
got, were  going  ,h,s  way  and  Ihat,  some  by  his  feet 
»ome  by  his  hands  outP,.,,.  Then,  befo,,.-  the  won-' 
der-str,eke.,  men  who  «,.  cios«t  „.  h.,.  ,.ouid  in- 

er.ere  he  had  trampled  o„  the  , ,  „„,,  ,„,,  . 

jRlited  brands,  trampled  them  „-.  fury  J,,,,  ;„,„  J 

the  black,  whose  quivering  face  was  upturned  to  his 
m  an  agony  of  pleading.  There  he  stood,  a  mighty 
figure  of  a  man  ;  at  least,  so  he  appeared  to  me  as  1 
g-ed,  petrified,  at  the  awesome  scene.  And  his 
pose  wa,  the  very  incarnation  of  defiance  as  h 
towered  above  them,  his  face  aflame  with  indigna- 
tion  and  courage  and  contempt. 

Then   I  saw  a  movement  in  the  cro„d-or  felt 
.  rather- that  chilled    my    heart    with   terror, 
knew  what  would   happen  now,  knew  it,  with  un- 
-nng  instinct-and  I  trembled  as  a  fawn  quivers 

>v  en   It     ea,3   the   first   low   cry  of  distant' do  : 
And    swiftly,    silently,    scorning    both    aunt    and 

mother    I  flew  through  the  door  on  to  the  porch 
down  the  steps,  gliding  like  a  shadow  tiU  I  found 


-  Mn^ 


176  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

shelter  behind  an  ancient  elm  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  swaying  crowd.  I  was  as  safe  there,  and  as  un- 
observed, as  though  I  had  been  a  hundred  miles 
away. 

It  only  took  a  minute,  but  Gordon  had  begun  to 
speak  before  I  got  there,  his  quivering  voice  ringing 
like  a  bell  through  the  night.  The  men  before  me 
were  just  beginning  to  recover  from  the  first  shock 
of  surprise. 

•«  Who  is  that fool  ?  "  I  heard  one  en- 
quire, not  more  tlian  four  feet  ahead  of  me. 

"  I  know  him,"  a  voice  answered.  I  recognized 
the  informant  at  once — he  had  been  to  our  house 
for  supper  only  a  few  nights  before.     "  He's  a  pai-son 

that's  visiting  the  Lundys.    A Scotchman,"  he 

went  on  contemptuously  ;  "  his  father's  a  collie  dog 
over  there — takes  care  of  sheep  on  the  hills,  be  told 
me. 

I  knew  how  helpless  I  was,  but  my  blood  was 
boiling.  I  shook  my  fist  at  the  horrid  creature  from 
where  I  stood — I  could  have  lynched  /inn,  rij^ht 
tlion  and  there. 

"  If  you  must  kill  him  before  he's  proved  guilty," 
carne  Gordon's  voice,  "  kill  him  like  white  men,  not 
like  Indians." 

A  mighty  roar  went  up  at  this,  and  the  crowd 
swayed  nearer  to  the  ccr.tral  figures.     A  loud  howl 


THE   L  YNCHING  ,„ 

of  terror  came  from  the  „..gro.    Jiu,  the  immediate 
pcr,l  was  no,  for  him_,l,e  ..orm  >vas  ragi,,,,  „o,v 

. .-  wou  d  have  seen  Gordon  in  ,he  du.cl,e.s  of 
'l.e  mob.  had  i.  no.  been  ten.porarily  restrained  by 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  honoured  of  our  ci.i.ens 

1  saw  h,ml„t  his  hand  as  a  signal  for  silence  in 
a  moment  he  and  Gordon  seemed  to  be  carrying 
on  an  ammated  argument.  I  couldn't  hear  Colonel 
M,tford  for  such  was  his  name  ;  but  1  could  catch 
tiordon  s  voice. 

"  ^'7,  ^''^'"^  P'^"^>'  -b-t  your  Southern  chivalry 
-would  you  lynch  a  white  man  if  he  offered  the 
sa-e  .ndignity  to  a  black  woman  as  .his  wretch  has 

The  Colonel  seemed  :,,  pause  for  a  season.  And 
really.  ,fs  not  much  wonder  that  he  should-l  am  as 
Southern  as  any  one  who  ever  hved.  but  that  question 
n.akes  me  pause  even  yet.  Soon  the  Colonel  broke 
<'^'t  a^rain.  this  t.me  into  quite  a  prolonged  speech 

"Its  all  your  rij^htful  hcnta^c."  came  back 
(-rdons  voice,  ringing  high;  •.  if.s  the  legacy 
^'avery  has  left  you.  You're  only  reaping  what 
you  sowed." 

At  this  the  clamour  was  renewed,  the  crowd  press- 
-Pr  m  again-and  I  half  started  from  my  hiding- 
Place.     But  again   the  Colonel   persuaded   them   to 


178 


7HE  ATTIC   GUEST 


silence,  and  again  he  directed  his  remarks  to  Gordon 
He  was  evidently  saying  something  about  the  re- 
lation of  the  races. 

Then  came  Gordon's  thunderbolt :  "  It  seems  to 
me,"  he  cried  hotly,  recklessly, "  it  seems  to  me  you 
couldn't  have  much  more  fusion  than  you  have 
already — this  negro's  half  white  himself ;  "  which 
proved  more,  as  I  knew  it  would,  than  any  Southern 
man  would  stand. 

"  Then  you  can  take  what  you  deserve,  curse  you 
for  a  nigger-lover,"  I  heard  the  Colonel  retort  madly, 
his  voice  lost  in  the  roar  of  hate,  tlie  wild  outcry  for 
vengeance  that  burst  from  tlie  infuriated  crowd.  All 
resistance  was  now  swept  away,  and  a  few  ringleaders 
at  the  front  fairly  clutched  at  Gordon.  One  had  him 
by  the  throat,  the  others  pressing  in  upon  him  with 
wolfish  fury  gleaming  in  their  eyes. 

But  before  their  purpose — what  it  was  I  know 
not,  nor  probably  did  they — before  it  could  be  carried 
out,  another  rushed  to  the  grim  theatre.  It  was  my 
Uncle  Henry,  his  hat  gone,  lost  somewhere  in  the 
crowd.  He  leaped  to  where  Gordon  stood,  and  at 
his  presence  the  men  fell  back. 

"  Vou  shan't  injure  this  man,"  he  shouted  hoarsely. 
"  Not  that  I  contend  he  doesn't  deserve  it — but  he's 
my  guest,"  the  word  echoing  clear.  "  I^e's  my 
guest,"  uncle  repeated,  for  he  knew  the  magic  of  the 


■tk^xL*  ^mAr-ii 


THE  LYNCHING  ,,, 

word;  ..  he's  a  stranger  amongst  us_a„d  an  ignorant 
stranger  at  that  m  .ake  the  fool  hon-e,"  he  wen 
on.  casfng  at  Gordon  one  of  the  mo.t  contemptuous 
glances  I  ever  saw  from  human  eyes.  ■<  and  I'll  deal 
w..hh,m  myself.  I'U  prom.se  you  to  deal  with  h.m 
-he  s  my  guest  A«d  you  shall  do  as  you  please 
With  the  nigger." 

1  think  the  storm  abated  for  a  moment  Perhaps 
.t  would  have  subsided  altogether,  for  stranger  is  a 
sacred  name  to  Southern  ears.  But  suddenly  Colonel 
Muford,  still  ashy  pale  w.th  wrath,  shouted  to  the 
crowd : 

"  He  said  they  couldn't  have  more  white  blood  in 
hem  than  they've  got-he  said  we're  blended  now" 
the  words  ending  i„  a  half  snarl,  half  cry ;  for  if  there 
»s  any thmg  under  God's  sky  that  makes  Southern  men 
drunk  w.th  fury  it  is  just  such  a  statement  as  Gordon 
had  been  rash  enough  to  make. 

Some    one    else  shouted   a   confirmation   of  the 
Colonels   words,  another  added  something  Gordon 
had  never  said;  and  slowly,  relentlessly,  the  crowd 
surged  m  again   upon  him.     My  uncle  was  rudely 
flung  aside-I  could  hear  his  voice  in  protest  through 
the  storm.     Then,  exactly  what  I  feared,  some  of  the 
assassins,  more  maddened  than  the  rest,  jerked  the 
rope  from  the  negro's  neck  and  flung  it  with  a  loud 
cry  over  Gordon's  head.     This  was  to  the  crowd  what 


i8o 


THE   ATTIC   GUHS7 


the  ta.stc  of  blood  is  to  the  liijcr,  and  a  fiendish  yell 
broke  (rom  a  hundred  throats.  It  is  not  hkely  they 
really  meant  to  kill  him — but  no  one  could  forecast 
the  limit  of  their  violence. 

1  wouldn't  have  cared  if  there  had  been  a  million 
men  and  every  man  a  Nero.  I  didn't  will  to  do  it, 
I  didn't  know  1  was  doing  it,  didn't  calculate  what  it 
meant  at  all.  Uut  I  just  felt  I  was  stronger  than 
them  all,  and  that  it  was  now  or  never.  So,  without 
word  or  cry,  I  sprang  from  behind  that  ancient  ehii 
and  leaped  to  where  Gordon  stood.  I  could  never 
remember  that  I  pushed  or  elbowed  through  the 
crowd  ;  I  don't  believe  I  did.  There  seemed  to  be 
an  open  path  for  me,  and  in  far  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  I  was  at  his  side.  I  remember  how  close 
I  was — so  close  that  I  caught  the  gleam  of  that  awful 
negro's  eyes  and  felt  his  breath  upon  my  check  as  he 
panted  in  prospect  of  his  doom.  And  in  a  Hash  I 
had  torn  that  rope  from  Gordon's  neck,  flung  it  on 
the  ground,  stamped  on  it,  as  I  turned  and  hurled 
(Kfiance  at  the  crowd  in  one  long  look  that  I  felt 
ni>self  was  all  of  fire.  Then  I  took  Gordon's  hand 
in  mine,  pointing  silently  towards  the  house.  He 
ioilowed  me,  and  uncle  walked  behind. 

1  don't  think  the  slightest  resistance  was  offered 
as.  1  he  only  protest  was  from  Gordon  himself.  Me 
Would  have  Im-.nj  !,  had  he  had  his  way.     Hut  some 


!  i 


'^HE   L  YNCHING  .g, 

prrr;::;:::;r;-:-;:;r 

.n..\..  r      ,  "-^^''I'-     ^^  v^'ct.'.  instantly  fanuliar 

dim  natc  so  ma  irrnant  tint  h.>  *         . 

r  1  t,'"»»i  mat  Jie  turned  a  momenf  ac 

ana  walked  calmly  on. 

ch'rr";?'-''"""'"' ""' '"" '  =••"'  >^-  "■'•■  f-e  of 

tlicnsfl,...,  .,=        ,  ' '  "y  '^y'^s  bore 

""■""  -'s  '">•  licart  ivuuld  nisi, 

Ul.c„  „v  ,,a,,,ed  „„  , ,c  a,„„  and  „o,her  re. 

--„s„,.„„,,,p,„^.^,„.      Hut,.„cIcu,.crcd„cvor 

,"'^"";"™'"-— -I..K.iu.,dJer,cd.     Fo     e 

;t',"-\''r'''"'^  """••  '^' "-an.  do : 

ine  htairs,  I  „,et  ]i,m  ,„  the  hall  -inH  n 

"'^-     "^"^   '  ^^-^^^  of  chidine  esc.n.H 


1 82 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


his  lips — he  stroked  my  hair,  and  his  tenderness  was 
the  tenderness  of  farewell. 

I  told  him,  with  trembling  voice,  that  I  had  seen 
Mr.  Giddens  in  the  throng.  This  did  not  surprise 
him.  "  I  know  it,"  he  said ;  "  he  came  in  on  the 
eleven  o'clock  train — he  heard  the  noise,  of  course, 
and  came  up.  Listen,"  he  suddenly  cried,  as  we 
heard  a  footfall  on  the  purch,  succeeded  by  a 
gentle  knock  at  the  door,  "  what's  that  ?  That'll  be 
him— go  inside,  child,"  as  he  walked  to  the  door  to 
open  it. 

Gordon  was  sitting  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
offering  speech  to  nobody,  when  Mr.  Giddens  came  in. 
The  latter  bowed  with  courtly  grace  to  my  mother 
and  my  aunt,  casting  on  me  a  glance  that  showed  he 
still  hoped — perhaps  more  now  than  ever.  Then  he 
walked  straight  ovc*  till  he  stood  in  front  of  Gordon. 

"  Laird,"  he  said,  before  any  one  could  speak, 
"  you've  tried  to  ruin  my  happiness — and  I've  got  to 
settle  with  you  yet  for  that."  Gordon  sprang  to  his 
feet.  "  And  you've  ontraged  the  sentiment  of  this 
city — and  you've  disgraced  this  home,"  the  words 
coming  out  like  pistol-shots,  "  and  I  want  to  know 
what  you've  got  to  say  for  yourself." 

"  Nothing — to  you,"  said  Gordon,  his  face  looking 
a  little  terrible,  his  voice  overflowing  with  contempt. 

Mr.  Giddens  turned  livid — and  he  made  a  motion 


THE   LYNCHING  ,§3 

back^vard   with  his   iv.n  i 

"ui.  ,t  ua.  towards  his  pocket      "If it 

wer.n  t  my  respect  for  tlie  house  were  .n  -  h.  r 

through  Ins  teeth. «.  I'd  shoot  v o, 7/     !.'         """^ 
•     *  "  s>noot  yoa  hke  a  dorr  " 

Gordons  face  was  now  aleogctte.-  terrMe      He 

liim  like  balls  of  flame.    "I've  hear,!  .,.1, 
talk  like  that,"  he  aid.  ""'"''^ 

Then  Mr.  GiJdens'  hand  flew  forward,  unarmed  • 
la     ":.r-^- «-^--  f""  '"  '"e  face.     VV^e  were   „o' 
-wc  m,gh,  a.  well  have  raced  with  ligl„„n,.> 
Wore  we  could  speak  c-  move.  Gordons  miBh,;' 

b  k  '::;i :  f ";™"-  ^-^  "^  -->■='' "™  bi{ 

■  ""   '"^  ''""^  ='™cl<  -iti,  a  thud  aga,„st  the 
orner  wa  1     There  is  some.hin,  m-.r-uLs    b 
""  ^"'-=1""="   when  madness  seizes  them     So 
™,  so  silent,  so  inscrutable,  there  is    o  ,:ce  on 
-       so  cam  and  none  so  dead,,.     And  stren;!! 

00,  Cordon  drew  back  his  hand,  every  musde  7n 

1  erdV"'?'"'''"''  °"'  "''=-"'■■>-''-» '>e 
garnered  lurce  for  the  blow 

Then  suddenly  his  hand  fell  to  his  side;  he  seemed 
to  shake   n.mself  free  from  his  passion,  as  a  mnn 
^^^kens    h:mself  from   sleep-   the\.-  r 
shovvP-i  •      '         .  ^'  "^'ghty   struggle 

siioweJ  ,n  tne  quivering  voice. 

"  1   could   kill  v^M  "  he  -a--i  ...vu  '       -  , 

>  -J,    ne  .a.d  with  leauul  quietness; 


i84 


THE   A  J 'TIC   GUEST 


"  I  could  kill  you  now — go,"  as  he  released  his  antag- 
onist,  already  purple. 

Holding  his  hand  to  his  throat,  the  hot  ulood  cooled 
by  now,  Mr.  Giddens  staggered  over  towards  my 
uncle.  "  Mr.  Lundy,"  he  began  thickly,  "  we  expect 
you  to  deal  with  this  cur— as  you  said  you  would. 
He's  brought  disgrace  on  you— and  he's  insulted 
every  lady  in  the  South  by  what  he  did  to-night— 
and  we  look  to  you  to  treat  him  as  he  deserves." 

Ihere  was  a  queer  smile  about  my  uncle's  mouth. 
For  nearly  a  minute  he  did  not  speak,  did  not  even 
look  towards  the  man  who  had  addressed  him.  Then 
he  turned  slowly  round. 

"  Mr.  Giddens,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
strange  from  him,  "I'll  deal  with  him.  Yes,  sir,  I 
reckon  I'll  deal  with  him." 

"  I  knew  you  would,  Mr.  Lundy,"  the  other 
returned  eagerly ;  "  I  knew  no  Southern  gentle- 
man   " 

*'  But  I'll  deal  with  you  first,  sir,"  my  uncle  inter- 
rupted stormily;  "you  knew— you  knew,  did  you? 
Perhaps  you  didn't  know  that  no  gentleman  allows  an- 
other man  to  insult  his  guest.  And  that's  what  you've 
done,  sir—that's  what  you've  done — you  struck  a  vis- 
itor in  my  house,  struck  him  in  the  face,  sir.  There's 
the  door,  sir— the  street's  the  place  for  you,— go," 
his  voice  rolling  like  thunder  now. 


"^f^E   L  YMCfliNG 


185 


Mr.  Giddcns  ventured  an  an.abie  smile,  steppin.  a 
little  nearer  *o  my  uncle      T  fi,    i   t  ^^PP'^fi  a 

his  hand.  .-Mr  lI'",''"''^ ''••■'''"'■• 
tone  ..I  „,  ';-^'""'>.  I'e  bcsaa  .„  a  conclliaeory 
tone      I    „ea„    „„  d,,,,,,,.,,  ,,  y,„.     ^.^^      J 

.s„  t  necessary,  Mr.  I.undy.     V„u  and  I  were  friends 

bef  .,-c  we  knew  tlns_tl,i,  <.  .  ,  "^ 

earth      Ani-.              '""  ^"^""^''man-was  on  the 
eartn.    And  it  seems  a  pity •■ 

"  Go,"  thundered  n,y  unde,  pointing  to  the  door 
r  en  suddenly  his  voice  grew  winte  wf.h  .n^'^l 

olro^^'"^  :'•■'''''•■' ^^'■■■"'"^ ''■-'" 

had  th,s  ready  for  the  nigger-but  you',1  get  i,[f  you 
speak  another  word.  Go  out  that  door-oryo^ 
carried  out,  by  God  "  as  h^  .a  , 

already  retreating  1.      "^  ^''"""''  "'^^ '"  "'^■ 

s  lent  y  mofoned  me  to  follow   him.     Gordon  l„d 

miint  r"' '"*"-"> '■■-°--  ""-ti: 

uJ  "■"  '■'''"'™'"'  ="''  ■'-'  ">'  ■'-  beiund 

"Helen,    1,^  began  gravely,  ..  I  .hal,  speak  „o 

ten  ,':  -''    '"""  '"""■     '^-^  ^'  >'-"•     Vo„  n,„3t 

•■Tell  him  what.  "lasted,  who  had  no  need  to  ask. 
reckon  you  know,"  n,y  uncle  answered  quietly. 
He  can  stay  here  no  longer,  of  course." 


186 


THE  Ainc  aUFST 


"  No,"  I  assented,  my  voice  choking. 

"  But  he  needn't  leave  to-night— tell  him  he  can 
stay  the  night.  But  to-morrow,"  he  concluded  big- 
nificantly.     I  nodded. 

"  Will  you  go  to  him— some  day,  I  mean  ?  "  he 
asked  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Yes,"  I  faltered,  with  downcast  head ;  "  yes,  some 
day." 

"And  leave  me,  Helen?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  your  mother— and  Aunt  Agnes  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  murmured  low,  the  hot  tears  droppi'ig 
from  my  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  he  can  never  come  back  here 
any  more  ? "  he  began  after  a  little,  the  words  coming 
slowly  and  sadly. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered ;  "  yes,  never  any  more." 

"  You're  foolish,  Helen,"  and  his  own  voice  was 
choking  as  he  came  over  and  put  his  arm  around  me. 
"  Whe.i  you  remember  he's  a  stranger ;  and  then, 
your  mother  and  I  and " 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  I  interrupted,  sobbing. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  yes,  that's  aU." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  him,"  I  said  broke  .  "  I'll  tell  him 
now." 

I  stole  up-stairs  to  the  attic  and  Icnocked  at  Gordon's 
door.    He  opened  it ;  then  asked  me  if  I  would  come 


"m 


THE  LYNCHING  ,«, 

i«.  I  looked  around;  h.  had  begun  his  simple  packing. 
But  he  d,d  not  speak.  The,.  I  held  ou.  n,y  annsl 
and  I  heard  hu„  murmur  ..Thank  God"  while  he 
held  me  „gh,,  so  .igh,  a.,  .hough  he  would  never  le, 
me  go. 

I  faltered  ou,  tha,  uncle  didn't  wan,  him  ,o  g„  u„. 

til  Uie  morning.  ^ 

"  Ifs  mor„,„g  now/,  he  said  firmly,  ••  and  Im  jus, 

-dy  to  go;,  from  Which  resolve  ,  was  p,„ver,es    to 

d-uadeh,m.    "  Ml  stay  a.  the  ho,el  ,ill  ,o.morrow 
evening,"  he  idded. 

"  ^^'  there's  a  morning  train."  I  interrupted,  look- 
ing up  at  him.  ^ 

"I  know-but  I'm  not  going  till  the  evening." he 
said  qu.etly.     I  knew  what  he  rneant 

Suddenly  he  disengaged  my  arms  and  held  me  out 
-n  front  of  him.  "  Helen  Randall."  he  said  .solemnly. 
"  uiU  you  come  to  mc  ?  ' 

I  buried  my  face  again  where  it  had  been  before  • 
my  t,£:htening  amis  gave  him  answer.  Then  he' 
kissed  me.  kissed  me_on!y  twice.  I  think-but  he 
kmed  me  as  maiden  never  was  kissed  before  And 
he  bade  me  go  ;  which  I  did  a.cer  I  had  clung  to  him 
once  more^  And  I  remember  how  his  poor  face  was 
bruised,  where  he  had  been  .struck  the  cruel  biow 

<ioinTe  i:r  t:  '7 ' '--'' '-  ^^'^-^ 

tne   stairs.     I   knew,  from  the  sound  of  his 


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188 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


steps,  that  he  was  carrying  his  valise.  He  saw  Aunt 
Agnes  in  the  hall,  I  believe,  the  only  one  who  was 
there — and  to  her  he  said  his  last  farewell.  I  heard 
the  door  close  gently  ;  I  could  catch  the  dying  foot- 
falls echoing  through  the  night. 

I  opened  my  door  before  I  went  to  bed.  Some- 
thing was  resting  against  it.  Picking  it  up  eagerly,  I 
scanned  it  beneath  the  light.  It  was  the  old  Scotch 
psalm-book  from  which  Gordon  had  sometimes  sung. 
And  the  page  was  turned  over  to  mark  one  of  the 
psalms — the  forty-sixth — which  he  had  indicated  with 
heavy  strokes.  My  eyes  swam  as  I  read  the  great 
lines  over  and  over  again.  They  seemed  just  meant 
for  us : 

"  God  is  our  refuge  and  our  strength, 
In  straits  a  present  aid  ; 
Therefore  although  the  earth  remove. 
We  will  not  be  afraid." 

It  refreshed  me  like  a  breath  of  mountain  air  to  read 
the  words ;  I  was  still  murmuring  them  when  I  crept 
into  bed.  I  resolved  to  try  and  learn  the  tune  that  was 
set  to  the  noble  psalm — Stroudwater  it  was  called— 
and  I  wondered  when  I  would  sing  it  to  Gordon  in 
our  own  little  home. 

All  of  this,  I  remember,  made  me  think  that  perhaps 
I  wouldn't  make  such  a  bad  minister's  wife  after  ail. 
I  really  loved  the  psalms.     Yet  I  must  confess,  before 


.'^^^''^^' 


.►     /^rwr?     £'■«>. 


THE   L  YNCHING  ,89 

this  chapter  finds  its  close,  that  a  girl's  heart  takes  a 
long  time  to  change.  I  fear  I  was  very  weak  and 
frivolous  after  all;  I  know  1  thought  far  more  of  Gor- 
don, and  of  his  love,  than  I  did  ol  religion  or  of  the 
hfe-work  that  awaited  me.  Because,  just  as  sleep  was 
commg  down  about  me,  I  found  that  my  willful  heart 
was  chanting  far  other  lines-and  they  seemed  sweet 
and  precious : 

"Still  must  yo'   call  mc  tender  names, 
Still  gently  stroke  my  tresses; 
Still  shall  my  happy  answering  heart 
Keep  time  to  youi  caresses." 

It  was  to  their  music  I  fell  asleep,  and  I  slept  like  a 
little  child.  But  I  have  come  to  think  long  since  that 
the  song  and  the  psalm  were  not  such  distant  relatives 
after  all. 


XIV 
GIRDING  ON  THE  ARMOUR 

THE  year  that  followed  Gordon's  departure 
for  the  North  was  my  growing  year.     It 
was  the  sweetest,  dreariest,  love-brightest, 
loneliest  year  of  all  my  life — and  it  was,  as  I  have  said, 
my  progress  year.     I  mean,  by  that,  it  was  the  year 
which  led  me  farthest  in  to  the  real  secret  of  living 
and  the  real  springs  of  life.     Of  course,  it  was  a  deso- 
late twelvemonth ;  I  never  saw  Gordon's  face  from 
its  beginning  to  its  close ;  and  this  was  a  new  side  of 
life  to  me,  to  discover  that  I  could  miss  any  one  face 
so    much.     Nothing    pleased    me    more    than    the 
sadness  that  used  to  settle  down  on  me  every  now 
and  then,  especially  in  the  twilight  hour,  when  the 
dear  absent  one  filled  all  my  thought.     There  was  a 
kind  of  royal  state  about   my  widowhood— if  that 
sombre  word  can  be  applied  to  such  a  hopeful  year— 
that  made  me  feel  I  was  set  apart  from        ither  girls, 
especially  from  those  who  had  their  happiness  on  tap 
right  at  their  hands.     Mine  seemed  to  be  fed  from 
far-off  fountains,  farther  up  the  hill ;  and  I  felt  a  kind 
of  envious  pity  for  those  whose  unromantic  luxury  it 

190 


vm^^m^''^^'^^' 


'-j£^^^ 


GIRDING  On  The  ARMOUR  ,9, 
was  to  see  their  sweethearts  every  night.  I  walked 
by  faith  ;  but  they  by  sight.  I  ti,o.ght.  paraphrasing 
a  text  of  Scripture-which.  it  occurred  to  me.  was  the 
proper  thing  for  a  girl  with  such  ministerial  prospects 
as  my  own.  But  I  suppose  they  pitied  me  in  turn  • 
which  only  goes  to  show  what  a  self-rectifying  world' 
this  is. 

Besides,  so  far  as  my  own  household  was  concerned 
I  was  deliciously  alone.     I  learned,  in  this  connection' 
something  of  the  martyr's  mysterious  joy.     If  there' 
was  one  thing  beyond   another  that  made  me  love 
Gordon  more  and  more  wildly  every  day.   it  was 
that  my  family  hardly  ever  spoke  his  name.     Ex- 
cepting mother,  of  course ;  she  was  still  my  mother  if  a 
disappointed  and  saddened  one-and  sometimes  great 
freshets  of  tenderness  and  sympathy  flowed  from  her 
heart  over  into  mine.     But  uncle  was  so  stern  about 
«t  all.   so   consistently   silent.      If  he  had   been    a 
rejected  lover  himself  he  couldn't  have  handed  me 
Gordon's  daily  letter  more  solemnly  than  he  used  to  do 
when  he  came  in  with  the  mail. 

These  I  always  read  alone  in  secret,  putting  them 
away  afterwards  with  reverent  hands-and  I  kept  the 
key  myself  this  time.  A  nd  such  letters  as  they  were ' 
1  could  be  famous  over  all  the  world,  if  I  chose  to 
publish  the  love-letters  of  Gordon  Laird-they  were 
a  combination  of  poetry  and  fire.     Yet  I  had  always 


\q2 


•THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


read,  and  heard,  that  Scotchmen,  even  when  in  love, 
were  as  reserved  and  cold  as  their  native  niOLintains. 
Perhaps  they  arc — but  my  Scotchman  must  have  been 
a  Vesuvius,  with  Eolian  harp  accompaniment,  as  the 
world  would  concede  if  they  could  once  get  their  eyes 
upon  his  letters. 

I  valiantly  renounced  everything  I  thought  ques- 
tionable for  a  girl  whose  promised  husband  was  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel.  I  gave  up  cards,  of  course, 
though  not  without  a  pang.  Sometimes  I  still  went 
to  card  parties,  but  I  never  did  anything  worse  than 
punch  the  score  cards,  which  I  could  do  quite  dex- 
terously. I  never  cared  for  the  business  though ;  if 
there's  a  mean  occupation  on  earth,  it's  punching 
score  cards  while  everybody  else  is  having  all  the  fun. 
I  fancy  I  felt  a  good  deal  like  those  famous  pugilists 
that  drop  down  at  last  to  holding  a  sponge,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  I  began,  too,  to  take  a  faint  inter- 
est in  temperance ;  forswore  claret  punch  forever  ; 
thought  seriously,  for  several  weeks,  of  giving  up  syl- 
labubs ;  even  went  so  far  at  table  as  to  ask  Aunt 
Agnes  if  she  thought  brandy  sauce  was  quite  the 
thing.  Aunt  said  I  didn't  raise  the  question  till  after 
I  had  had  two  helpings.  With  regard  to  "  the  light 
fantastic,"  I  never  danced  anything  stronger  than  Sir 
Roger;  used  to  play,  sometimes,  while  the  others 
waltzed— but  that's  deadly  dry,  like  punching  score 


-^^>:^mr^. 


-^^^im^mm^h^^m'^ 


GIRDING    On    The    ARMOUR.      193 

cards,  or  holding  a  sponge  when  your  fighting  days 
are  done. 

About  the   brandy  sauce,  mother  told  me  after 
that  I  needn't  worry.     Did  I  know  how  expensive 
brandy    was,  she  said.     And  I  had  already  told  her 
how  much  salary  Gordon  was  getting  in  his  mission 
field  in  Canada.     There  is  no  need  to  mention  it 
here— but  it  was  mighty  little.     He  had  a  country 
station,  somewhere  in  the  rural  districts  ;  of  which, 
to  my  mind  at  least,  Canada  seemed  to  be  almost 
entirely  composed.     For  all  I  knew  of  that  Dominion 
was  from  the  geography  we  learned  at  school;  it 
gave  only  a  few  paragraphs  to  our  nearest  neighbour 
nation—and  these  were  clustered   round   a  picture 
that  would  chill  you  to  behold,  the  picture  of  a  man 
without  coat  or  vest,  knee-deep  in  snow,  lifting  up 
his  axe  upon  the  trees  of  the  forest. 

Gordon's  letters,  of  course,  were  full  of  his  work 
and  his  people.  Ar.d  they  didn't  contain  much  that 
would  likely  attract  a  girl  brought  up  as  I  had  been. 
Little  gatherings  of  people,  mostly  in  country  school- 
houses,  deadly  singing— wliich  must  have  been  hard 
on  Gordon— rude  companionship,  humble  lodgings 
and  humbler  fare,  long  rides  and  walks,  scant  results 
for  all  his  toil.  But  he  seemed  to  love  his  work  and 
his  people,  and  never  complained.  Once  or  twice 
he  said   they   were   woefully   conservative   in  their 


Sif .;  „ 


194 


THE    A7  7IC   GUEST 


theology,  and  that  they  were  sternly  set  against  all 
the  views  of  modern  scholarship,  even  though  they 
didn't  know  wiiat  they  were.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
didn't  know  myself,  but  I  felt  uneasy  at  the  term ; 
far  from  religious  though  I  was,  I  yet  always  felt  that 
there  were  no  doctrines  worth  the  name  except  the 
old  ones — the  older  the  better,  thought  I.  And 
when  I  asked  Mr.  Furvell  about  it  he  said  he  hoped 
Gordon  weisn't  a  disciple  of  Robertson  Smith,  and 
added  somelhing  darkly  about  a  "  higher  critic,"  I 
didn't  know  exactly  what  this  last  might  be — the 
adjective  might  apply  to  Gordon  all  right,  I  reckoned, 
but  I  didn't  like  the  noun. 

Anyhow,  we  were  going  to  be  married  ;  that  was 
the  principal  thing  to  me,  and  I  went  bravely  on 
making  preparations  for  the  greatest  e\  ent  of  all  my 
life.  I  hadn't  much  to  bring  Gordon  i?  ?  dower — 
practically  nothing,  indeed — for  my  modest 

income  left  no  margin  for  that,  and  V  vs'  '  iieathed 
that  it  could  not  survive  her.  But  I  \\auLed  to  bring 
him  a  good  true  heart  and  a  sound  body — with  a 
few  lovely  things  to  clothe  it.  Every  girl  wants 
that,  or  ought  to,  at  least. 

Of  course,  it  was  a  sad  feature  of  the  case  that 
we  were  not  to  be  married  at  our  own  home.  I 
suppose  we  might  have  been.  In  fact,  mother  tcid 
me  as   much,  and  1  knew  she  had  't  straight  from 


GIRDING    On    Tin    ARMOUR      195 
uncle.     IJut  I  knew  right  well  that  it  couldn't  be  a 
happy  wedding  there,  with   matters  as  they  were ; 
and,    besides,    it    would    have   raked   into   fire  the 
smouldering  embers  of  that  awful  blaze  that  I  have 
told  about   already.     And   the   whole   town   would 
have  been  agog— not  in  the  way,  either,  that  every 
girl  likes  a  town  to  be  when  she  gets  married.     So 
it  was  arranged  that  our  \vedding  was  to  take  place 
quietly  in  Baltimore,  at  the  house  of  a  girl  friend  of 
mine  whose  marriage  had  taken  her  there  to  live. 
Gordon  was  to  meet  me  there—though  I  really  be- 
lieve he  would  have  preferred  to  beard  the  lions  in 
their  den-and  mother  was  to  go  North  and  see  me 
launched  on  this  unknown  sea. 

The  first  time  I  was  ever  angry  with  Gordon  uas 
about  six  weeks  before  our  wedding  day.     He  \ATote 
me  a  long  letter,  full  of  details  about  the  humble- 
ness of  his  position,  and  the  slimness  of  his  pros- 
pects-aiv!  the  scarcity  of  his  cash.     He  wanted  to 
V,o  ahead,  of  course,  he  said  ;  but  he  thoijght  it  only 
iiir  to  tell  me,  accustomed  as  I  had  been  tu  a  life 
"f  comparative  luxury,  of  the  great  sacrifice  I  was 
making,  and  to  give  me  a  chance  even  yet,  should  I 
shrink  from  it,  to  etc.,  etc.     I  wrote  him  that  very 
"i..^ht  and   I  told  him  I'd  marry  him  if  we  had  only 
the  north  side  of  a   corn-cob  to  live   on,  which    I 
diy  thought  was  a  pretty  vigorous  stroke  and 


in 


10 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


worthy  of  a  nimbler  pen  than  mine.  Gordon  always 
kept  that  letter,  he  told  me  long  after,  lest  the  corn 
crop  should  ever  fail. 

It   was    a    lovely   wedding,  though    there    were 
only  four  people  besides  ourselves  to  see  it.     Gordon 
held  m>    hand  so  tight  in  his  ;  and  what  I  felt  the 
most,   and   gloried   in,   was    this— that   he   was   so 
much  stronger  than  I.     My   gown   looked   beauti- 
ful, they  all  said;    and  I  cried  a  little— two  things 
that  are  necessary,  it  seems  to  me,  to  any  really  suc- 
cessful  wedding.     I    remember    how   Gordon   cau- 
tioned me  to  be  careful  about  packing  my  lovely 
dress,  because,  he  explained ,  he  wanted  his  people 
to   see   me   at  my  best.     This  struck  me  as  rather 
odd,  considering  the  class  of  people  I  was  to  live 
among— I    fancied    a    linsey-woolsey   would   please 
them   as   well  as  an.   'nng  else.     And  I  wondered 
when  I  would  ever  get  a  chance  to  wear  the  beautiful 
creation.     But  I  had  no  idea  of  the  surprise  that  was 
in  store  for  me. 

Mother  went  home  by  train.  My  husband  and  I 
started  on  our  way  by  boat.  It  was  a  sweet  and  del- 
icate suggestion  on  Gordon's  part  that  wc  should  go 
southward  again  for  a  day  or  two,  to  begin  our  mar- 
ried life  under  the  dear  familiar  skies  I  loved  so  well. 
Wherefore  we  set  sail  that  evening,  exactly  at  seven 
o'clock,  on  the  Old  Bay  Line,  our  destinatii^u  to  he 


GIRDING    On    The    ARMOUR      ,07 

Old  Point  Comfort,  which  we  would  reach  the  follow- 
ing morning. 

It  is  really  a  pathetic  thought  that  the  bridal  joy- 
comes  only  once  into  a  maiden's  life,  so  quickly  past 
and  gone.     It  leads,  no  doubt_or  ought  to  lead- 
into  a  deeper  peace  and  a  more  steadfast  love;  but  it 
leads,  too.  away  from  the  tranquil  care-free  days  of 
youth,  on  in  to  the  storm  and  stress  of  life's  long  bat- 
tle.    I  remember  yet,  with  a  thrill  that  never  seems 
to  die,  the  rapture  of  that  hour  as  we  steamed  slowly 
out  from  Baltimore.     There  were  not  many  passen- 
gers—none that  we  had  ever  seen  before.     We  were 
alone-together.     And  by  and  by  we  found  a  place 
on  a  deserted  corner  of  the  deck,  our  chairs  close  to- 
gether, our  hands  sometimes  passionately  clasping  as 
we  looked  out  over  the  darkening  bay  and  thought  in 
silence  of  the  waiting  years  through  which  we  were 
to  be  parted  never  more.     By  and  by  the  rising  moon 
clothed  the  bay  in  a  robe  of  glory  ;  and  thus,  with  love 
and  light  about  us.  as  happ/  as  though  no  storm  could 
ever  disturb  our  lifelong    -ay,  we  started  on  the  long, 
long  journey  we  were  to  take  together. 

"  I've  got  some  news  ^or  you.  dear."  Gordon  sud- 
denly startled  me  by  saying. 

"  Do  tell  me  quick,  Gordon."  said  I.     Only  Gordon 
wasn't  the  name  I  used. 
"Try  end  guess." 


198 


THt   ATTiC   GUEST 


I  thought  a  moment.  "  They've  papered  that  old 
house,"  I  said,  "  without  waiting  till  1  came,"  for 
Gordon  had  told  me  that  the  nauves  of  his  country 
parish  had  designs  on  the  old  stone  manse  against  my 

arrival. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  No,  it's  good  news 
at  least,  1  hope  it  may  turn  out  to  be." 

•'  Oh,"  1  exclaimed,  drawing  a  long  breath,"  I'm  so 
glad— the  paper  they'd  choose  would  give  me  the 
jimjams,  I  know.     Well,  tell  me." 

•<  We're  not  going  to  the  old  stone  manse  at  all," 
he  said,  turning  and  looking  radiantly  at  me  in  the 
moonlight.  "  We're  not  going  to  Rocanville— I've 
got  a  call.  Melon." 

"  WHiere?  "  I  gasped,  leaning  forward  with  my  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  caring  not  who  '•aw.     "  And  wh)- 

di.'  ''t  you  tell  me Oh,  Gordon,  did  you  feci 

you  couldn't  trust  me?  "  my  voice  trembling  a  little 
as  the  first  pang  of  conjugal  sorrow  smote  my  bosom. 

He  laughed ;  then  stooped  and  kissed  me,  having 
previously  cast  a  swift  Scotch  glance  about  the  deck. 
"  I'd  trust  you  with  my  life,  my  darling,"  he  mur- 
mured— which  comforted  me  a  good  deal.  "  But  I 
wasn't  exactly  sure  till  two  or  three  days  ago — and  I 
wanted  to  surprise  you — and  I  warted  always  to  think 
that  when  my  Helen  gave  herself  to  me,  "he  *hou§ht 
she  was  going  into  the  wilds  for  love's  sweet  sake 


.^^'^S- 


GIRDING    On    The    AKMOUR 


if» 


So  it  will  always  be  just  as  precious  to  me  as  if        i 
had  actually  jjone." 

"  W  where  arc  we  gow^  ?  "  I  pressed  eagerly,  not 
lintjerin^'  on  the  sweetness  ;  "  dunt  keep  me  waitir;g, 
Gordon." 

"  r<)  Old  Point  Comfort,"  he  »•  with  the  most 
provokinjT  deliberation. 

"  Don't  tease  me,  dearest,"  I  protested.  Wonder- 
ful, isn't  it,  how  brides  always  employ  the  tenderest 
names  when  they  are  just  a  little  bit  e.xasperated. 

And  then  he  tc'd  me  where  it  was  we  were  to  begin 
our  ;-narried  life.  The  church  that  had  caHcd  us 
was  named  St.  Andrew's;  and  it  was  the  leading 
church,  Gordon  said,  in  Hertford,  a  Canadian  city 
that  shall  so  be  named.  "  At  least,"  he  hastened  to 
add,  "  it's  the  ric  pst  church,  has  the  richest  class  of 
people  in  it— whe  r  that  makes  it  the  leading  church 
or  not." 

"  Oil,  I'm  so  glad,"  I  exclaimed  breathlessly,  my 
face  aglow.  "  So  that's  why  you  wanted  me  to  be  so 
careful  of  my  wedding  dress  ?  Isn't  it  all  like  a 
lovely  fairy  talc?  And  are  we  going  there  right 
away?" 

"  Ves— after  wc  leave  Point  Comfort.  I'm  to  be 
installed  there  a  week  from  to-day— and  there's  to  be 
a  reception  to  us  in  the  evening." 

"  Oh,  lo"ely ! "  I  cried  ;  '<  I  didn't  think  I'd  get  a 


200 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


chance  to  wear  my  finery  at  all.  Do  tell  me  all  about 
it,  Gordon,"  as  I  snuggled  closer  in  the  moonlight. 
The  deck  was  gloriously  deserted  now. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  he  said,  and  I  wondered 
why  he  wasn't  more  jubilant  about  it  all.  "  They  in- 
vited me  to  preach  before  them  a  few  weeks  ago.  I 
went — never  dreamed  they  would  call  me,  though. 
But  they  did.  And  the  church  isn't  such  a  very  large 
one — but  it's  very  fashionable ;  too  fashionable,  I 
fear.  A  minister  isn't  always  happiest  in  a  church 
like  that,  you  know,"  and  again  I  caught  the  note  in 
his  voice  which  showed  he  didn't  regard  the  prospect 
with  unmixed  enthusiasm. 

"  But  I  know  we'll  ue  happy,  dear,"  I  reassured 
him,  quite  frank  in  my  exultation ;  "  that  class  of 
people  will  suit  you  so  much  better.  They'll 
appreciate  you — you'd  have  been  wasted  on  those 
common  people  at  that  other  outlandish  place." 

"  Not  wasted,  dear,"  he  answered  quietly ;  "  a 
man's  never  wasted  where  he  does  his  best.  But 
I'm  glad  for  your  sake,"  he  went  on  more  brightly  ; 
"  I  don't  think  I'd  have  gone,  only  I  thought  you'd 
be  happier  there." 

"  I'd  be  happy  anywhere  with  you,"  I  replied  in 
bridal  bliss,  ««  I'd  have  come  to  you  just  the  same  if 
you'd  been  assistant  minister  of  an  Indian  church  at 
the  North  Pole.     But  I'm  glad,"  my  happy  words 


*-j3RS2ffiBL3?B?'T««ry*-.  r-.vr  '^  ^7aB^»aBB^pa«:'7s?^wr5S^<- 


Girding  On  The  armour    201 

went  on.  -  I'm  so  glad  we're  going  to  be  among 
congenial  people.  And  I'm  sure  we'll  have  a  lovely 
time— we'll  have  a  lovely  social  life,  I  mean." 

"  I  hate  social  life-society  life,  at  least,"  Gordon 
suddenly  broke   out  in  a  voice  that  quite  startled 
me;  "  and  if  they  think  I'm  going  to  be  a  gossipy 
tea-drinking  parson,  they'll  soon  find  their  mistake." 
"  But,    Gordon,"   I    remonstrated  seriously,  •'  you 
shouldn't  look  at  it  that  way.     Consider  the  influence 
you  can  have  over  them-that  is,  through  their  social 
life.     I   think  the  minister  of  rich  people  has  the 
greatest  chance  in  the  world~to  do  them  good,  I 
mean.     And  I'll  help  you-I'll  help  you,  dearest."' 
"  How  ?  "  my  husband  enquired  after  a  little  pause. 
"  Well,"  I  answered  slowly  ;  "  oh,  well,  I  like  that 
sort  of  thing.     I'm  not  much  good,  you  know,  at- 
at— religious  work,  prayer-meetings  and  things  "  I 
floundered  on;  "  but  I  can-I  can  do  that  part,' be- 
cause I  like  it.     I'll  try  and  help  you,  Gordon-in 
that  department,  you  know,"  I  concluded,  realizing. 
I  fear,  that  it  wasn't  a  very  heroic  field. 

"  I  want  my  little  wife  to  help  me  in  all  the  de- 
I'artments,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "And  you  will, 
won't  you,  dearest-you'll  love  my  work  for  its  own 
sake,  won't  you?" 

Which  I  promised  swiftly.  "  Rut  I  think  I'll  love 
•t  more  in  that  kind  of  a  church,"  I  added  frankly. 


•?:'**»■ 


ipi 


202  THE   A7TIC   GUEST 

^'than  I  would  at  Rocanville.  And  of  course  I 
won't  play  cards  with  them,  or  dance— or  anything 
like  that,"  I  affirmed  piously,  looking  to  Gordon  for 
an  approving  smile  ;  "  but  I  suppose  it  won't  be  any 
harm  for  me  to  go  to  those  things,  will  it,  dear  ?  " 

•'  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  said,  looking  out 
over  the  shining  bay  ;  "  but  I  want  my  wife  to  find 
her  life-work  in  mine— and  to  help  me  be  a  truer 
and  better  minister,  no  matter  where  our  field  of 

work  may  be." 

AH  of  which  I  promised,  with  the  gladdest, 
happiest  heart.  And  I  told  Gordon  I  wanted  him 
to  write  me  out  a  little  prayer,  a  kind  of  missionary 
prayer,  for  opening  meetings  with,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.     Gordon  said  I  was  a  ritualist. 

Then  we  arose  to  go  inside,  for  the  night  was 

growing  chill. 

"Is  there  any  danger,  Gordon,"  I  asked  as  we 
walked  through  the  saloon,  "  any  danger,  do  you 
think,  that  my  trunks  won't  get  to  Hertford  the 
same  day  we  do?  They  have  the  reception  that 
night,  you  said." 

"  Oh,  no,"   he  said ;   "  the  trunks  have  gone  on 

ahead  already." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  I  answered  ;  "  it  would  be  too  bad 
to  begin  our  work  there  with— with  any  handicap 
like  that,  you  know." 


XV 
"OUR    LADY   OF    THE   SNOIVS" 

IT  was  evident  there  were  plenty  of  rich  people 
in  St.  Andrew's,  as  Gordon  had  told  me.     I 
hadn't  been  half  an  hour  in  the  parlours  of  the 
church  that  evening  of  our  reception  before  I  was  sure 
of  that.     My  trunks    had    come   to  hand  all  right, 
and  my  wedding  splendour  was  making  what  show 
it  could,  but  it  soon  found  its  level  among  the  costly 
gowns  that  were  worn  by  many  a  fair  dame  that 
night.     If  I   had  ^vanted    abundant  evidence   that 
Gordon  was  to  be  minister  of  a  fashionable  church, 
I  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied.     I  had  never  seen 
so    much    rich   religion    in   any   one   organization. 
Although,  of  course,  the  evening  wasn't  very  much 
on    the    religious    order.     There   was    an   opening 
prayer,  I  think,  and  the  good  brother  who  offered  it 
prayed  that  they  might  all  go  out  into  the  highways 
and    byways    and    compel    them    to    come   in.     I 
remember   thinking   most  of   them  would  have  to 
change  their  clothes  before  they  did  any  highway 
duty  of  that  kind— and  I  felt  sorry  for  the  wanderers 
that  might  be  introduced. 

203 


«^^;,^. 


204 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


The  people  were  very  kind  and  cordial  in  their 
welcome.  But  I  could  see  they  expected  me  to  real- 
ize what  a  superior  sort  of  people  they  were,  and 
what  a  fortunate  sort  of  individual  I  was.  They 
nearly  all  shook  hands  in  the  high  pump-handle 
fashion  that  was  almost  unknown  in  the  South ; 
and  they  managed,  in  divers  little  ways,  to  let 
me  know  they  were  a  very  elaborate  aggrega- 
tion of  Christian  folks.  I  rather  thought  one 
or  two  of  the  best  groomed  of  them  looked  at 
me  as  if  I  had  no  right  to  be  so  decently  clothed 
myself. 

The  evening  was  far  spent  when,  as  my  husband 
was  talking  to  a  lady,  a  very  important  looking  man 
came  up  and  shook  her  solemnly  by  the  hand.  "  We're 
glad  to  welcome  you,  Mrs.  Laird,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have 
already  met  your  husband — and  I  hope  you'll  feel 
at  home  amongst  us."  Whereat  Gordon  got  quite 
excited.  "  Oh,"  he  broke  in,  "  this  is  not  my  wife 
— here,"  as  he  beckoned  to  me,  "  this  is  Mrs.  Laird  " 
— and  I  hurried  forward.  I  cast  a  swift  glance  at  the 
woman  he  had  taken  for  me,  and  my  cheeks  burned 
with  indignation.  She  was  very  religious,  as  I 
learned  afterwards — but  she  was  forty  if  she  was  a  day, 
and  dressed  as  if  she  had  just  come  out  of  the  ark, 
and  wore  a  bonnet  that  might  have  been  an  heirloom 
in  the  family.    However,  I  forgave  her,  being  secretly 


wm^-^wm^^'mm  ^'m'^'iimmm 


l^ 


"OUR  L^DY  of  The  SNOIVS"  .05 
thankful  that  it  was  not  I.  She  was  a  stranger  I 
learned,  from  another  church. 

In  a  k.y  minutes  Mr.  As'luon-for  such  proved 
to  be  the  gentleman's  name-was  deep  in  conversation 
with  me  and  Gordon. 

"  Yes/'  he    went  on.  after  some  casual  remarks, 
your  husband  has  fell  on  his  feet  all  right.'      I  started 
a  httle  at  the  grammar ;  for  Mr.  Ashton  was  bedecked 
m  the  best  of  clothes,  and  had  one  or  two  diamonds 
about  h,s  person  into  the  bargain.     -  VVe  had  forty- 
three  applications  when  our  pulpit  became  vacant- 
and  ,t  was  quite  a  strain,  picking  out  the  man.     You 
see.  this  IS  a  very  remarkable  congregation."  he  went 
on  in  quite  a  wealthy  tone.  "  and  it's  not  every  man 
could  just  suit  us.     But  I  think  you'll  give  us  exactly 
what  we  want,  Mr.  Laird."  he  added,  turning  to  Gor- 
don; "your  style  suits  me  exactly."  and  he  smiled 
very  amiably  at  my  husband. 

"I  haven't  anything  but  the  Gospel.  Mr.  Ashton." 
Gordon  replied,  a  little  distantly  I  thought.  "  and  I 
suppose  that's  what  any  of  the  forty-three  would  have 
given  you." 

"Yes.  yes,"  rephed  Mr.  Ashton.  ing  with  u 
ponderous  seal  that  dangled  from  a  ,y  elaborate 
chain. '.  the  Gospel's  the  thing.  Give  me  the  Gospel 
--and  the  old  Gospel  too-none  of  your  new-fangled 
•deas  for  me.     No  man  could  have  got  St.  Andrew's 


mtmm»^^-=~' 


20b  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

pulpit  if  I'd  thought  he  believed  there  was  two  Isaiahs. 
You  don't  believe  in  those  new-fangled  notions,  of 
course,  do  you,  Mr.  Laird  ?  " 

Gordon  flushed  slightly.  "  I  don't  concern  my- 
self much  with  whether  a  truth  is  old  or  new,"  he 
answered  presently,  "  so  long  as  I  believe  it's 
the  truth.  Even  if  it  comes  from  the  critics,  I 
welcome  truth  from  them  as  quickly  as  from  any 
other  source." 

«•  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Ashton  loftily, 
knitting  his  brows  the  while,  "  to  a  certain  extent, 
that  is.  But  the  old  doctrines  are  good  enough  for 
me.  And — as  I  was  saying,  i\Irs.  Laird— we've  got 
a  very  rich  congregation  ;  very  rich,"  he  repeated, 
drawing  in  his  breath,  "  and,  I  hope,  not  withou',  a 
sense  of  its  responsibility  too.  Last  year  we  had  a 
surplus  of  eight  hundred  dollars — no  regular  salary  to 
pay,  you  see — and  on  my  own  motion,  on  my  own 
motion,  we  voted  se\-enty-five  of  it  to  foreign  missions. 
None  of  us  felt  the  poorer  for  it,  I'm  sure — and  I  hope 
we'll  be  kept  faithful  to  the  end,"  he  went  on  piously, 
"  faiuiful.  to  the  end,  Mr.  Laird,"  as  h^  turned  again 
and  smiled  at  Gordon. 

"  I'd  have  gone  in  for  giving  the  whole  thing  to 
missions,"  Gordon  ventured  boldly. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Laird ;  very  good  indeed,  to  a 
certain  extent.     But  we  never  expect  our  minister  to 


"OUR    LADY  of   The   SNOIVS'    2^ 
bother    with    the    finances,"  he    said   patronizingly. 
"  Our  last  minister  got  into  trouble  that  way—was 
always  preaching  about  the  poor  ;  talked  a  great  deal 
about  giving,  and  that  sort  of  thing-used  lu  preach 
some  very  worldly  sermons.     And  our  people  didn't 
take  to  it,  didn't  take  to  it  at  all,  Mrs.  Laird.     To  be 
quite  frank,  our  people  want  the  Gospel  and  nothing 
but  the  Gospel— I'm  that  way  myself;  none  of  your 
financial  or  political  sermons  for  me,"  he  concluded 
quite  significantly.     "  If  our  minister  looks  after  his 
pulpit  and  gets  up  the  kind  of  sermons  we  expect  him 
to  give,  we'll—we'll  run  the  finances  all  right,  Mr. 
Laird."     Then  he  dangled  his  glittering  fob  again 
and  smiled  up  at  Gordon  ;  for  Gordon  was  half  a  head 
higher  than  he. 

"  I'm  afraid  we're  keeping  you  too  much  to  our- 
selves, Mr.  Ashton,"  Gordon  suddenly  broke  in,  offer- 
ing me  his  arm  and  starting  to  move  away ;  "  the 
others  will  want  to  speak  to  you."  as  he  smilingly 
withdrrw,  a  light  in  his  eyes  t'lat  I  could  interpret 
quite  well,  lost  though  it  wa^      ■  our  prosperous  pa- 
rishioner.    Before   we  left,  Gordon  enquired  quietly 
about  Mr.  Ashton,  and  we  learned  that  he  owned  a 
huge  factory  and  was  quite  the  richest  man  in  the 
church.     One  or  two  declared  he  ran  the  whole  in- 
stitution, and  that  whatever  he  said  was  law.     I  don't 
think  this  cheered  Gordon  very  much. 


2o8 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


The  two  )  cars  that  followed  were  trying  ones  foi 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  on  exhibition  on  every 
hand,  and  I  felt  nearly  all  the  time  as  if  I  were  at 
some  kind  of  a  public  meeting.  The  church  had  no 
end  of  societies,  especially  women's  societies,  and 
they  all  expected  me  to  be  present  on  every  oc- 
casion. I  did  my  best  but  it  was  pretty  hard.  I 
memorized  the  little  prayer  Gordon  had  written  out 
for  me — and  broke  down  in  the  middle  of  it  the  first 
time  I  tried  to  deliver  it.  It  was  like  being  lost  at 
sea.  And  one  of  the  ladies  afterwards,  whose  hus- 
band was  very  rich — he  made  it  out  of  lard — told 
me  not  to  be  discouraged;  she  said  their  previous 
minister's  wife  made  a  living  show  of  herself,  time  and 
time  again,  before  she  got  to  be  able  to  pray  properly. 
So  I  stopped  right  there,  without  further  exhibition. 

I  bravely  attempted  teaching  a  class  in  the 
Sunday-school.  Things  didn't  go  so  badly  fur  the 
first  three  Sundays,  although  the  boys  asked  some 
questions  that  dreadfully  embarrassed  me ;  I  told 
them  they  must  think  these  things  out  for  them- 
selves. But  the  fourth  Sunday  two  of  them  fell  to 
fighting — over  a  big  glass  alley — and  they  had  a 
quite  disgraceful  time.  There  was  bloodshed.  It 
really  quite  unnerved  me,  as  I  didn't  know  the 
minute  they  might  break  out  again  ;  so  h\  about  six 
weeks  I  gave  that  up. 


.MtP- 


i^jn« 


"OUR    LADY  0/    The    SNOiVS"    ,09 
Another  thing  discouraRod  me  a  good  dcal-and 
that  uas  tliat  we  were  comparatively  poor.     Although 
the  congregation   was  composed  so  largely  of  r.ch 
people,   they    seemed    to   think-and    Mr.   Ashton 
openly   avowed^-that   nothing   injured   a  min.ter's 
spiritual  life  like  having  too  much  money.    So  we  were 
kept  pretty  safe  that  way.     But  there  was  one  lovely 
thing  about  the  salary-and  that  was.  the  manse- 
within  which  Gordon  and  I  made  our  home  as  soon 
as  we  came  to  Hertford.     It  seenied  a  little  small  to 
me  m  comparison  with  uncles  big  house  at  home • 
but  we  fixed  it  up  till  it  was  as  sweet  and  cozy  as  any 
l.ttle  home  could  be.  and  Gordons  delight  was  some- 
thing to  behold.     He  said  it  was  like  a  palace  to  him 
and  I   was  its  lovely  queen.     This  was  very  melo- 
dious to  me.  for  when  Gordon  said  pretty  things  he 
meant  them. 

However,  it  was  rather  trying,  after  all.  to  be  so 
much  harder  up  than  many  of  our  people.     Some  of 
hese  seemed  to  love  to  ask  me  why  we  didn't  keep 
horses  ;  and  whether  or  not  we  were  going  to  Europe 
tlus  summer;  and  how  many  servants  we  employed 
They  knew  right  well  all  the  time  that  we  had  enough 
to  do  to  keep  ourselves,  and  that  we  were  about  as 
hkely  to  go  to  Mars  as  to  Europe-it  comforted  me 
^  -ittle  to  know  I  could  have  gone  if  1  hadn't  fallen 
m  love  with  Gordon-and  as  for  servants,  we  had 


•wmik^  .WT^i 


3IO 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


only  our  red-headed  Harriet ;  but  she  was  first  cousin 
to  Ihe  wife  of  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  church. 
Their  fathers  were  brothers,  Harric  told  me  exult- 
antly ,  but  Harriet's  had  remained  a  mechanic,  while 
Mrs.  Newcroft's  had  become  a  manufacturer.  Harriet 
generally  got  one  afternoon  in  the  week  off;  Mrs. 
Newcroft  soon  found  this  out,  and  alwaj-s  chose  that 
day  to  call,  lest  Harr^t  should  greet  her  as  Mary 
Ann — which,  in  my  opinion,  she  had  a  perfect  right 
to  do. 

It  was  a  funny  aristocracy  we  had  in  Hertford — 
about  as  cheerful,  and  hopeful,  and  mushroomy  an 
'i^gregation  as  you  could  find  any wh;.io.  So  differ- 
ent from  the  South,  it  was ;  wealth  didn't  cut  much 
of  a  figure  with  our  old  Southern  families.  liut  the 
patricians  of  Hertford,  for  the  most  part,  had  bought 
their  way  to  the  scats  of  the  mighty ;  and  nearly  all 
the  blue  blood  was  financially  blue.  Some  of  the 
grand  dames  had  been  servants  themselves  in  their 
early  days;  which  was  no  disgrace  to  them,  I'm  sure, 
only  it  zoas  amusing  to  see  how  they  looked  down  en 
servants  now.  In  fact,  I  often  felt  how  discouragin<; 
must  have  been  their  arduous  efforts  to  build  up  an 
aristocracy  at  all ;  things  would  have  gone  pretty 
well,  had  it  not  been  for  some  mean  old  outsiders 
who  would  insist  on  remembering  back  thirty  or 
forty  years.     Those  within  the  sacred  circle  gener  ■ 


HSl^ 


"OUR   LADY  of   -The   SNOIVS'     2n 
ously  furgot-cach  for  the  other.     They  let  hygoncs 
be  byfjones.  to  their  mutual  advantage,     hut  outsiders 
had  cruel  memories.  Wherefore,  just  uhen  they  were 
getting  their  aristocracy  nicely  established,  some  of 
these  inconsiderate  old-timers  uould  go  rummaging 
m  tlie  past;  and.  the  first  thing  ue  knew,  they  would 
stumble  on  an  anvil,  or  unearth  a  plough,  or  a  hod. 
or  something  of  that  kind-whereat  th      'ue-blooded 
had  to  begin  all  over  again.     For  tiie  descendants  of 
nod,  or  plough,  or  anvil,  liad  somehow  developed  the 
greatest  scorn  for  these  honest  trade-marks  of  other 
days. 

Gordon  never  said  much  to  me-I  heard  him  use 
the  term  "  Shanghai  nobility  "  once,  with  a  smile- 
but  I  knew  how  he  despised  it  all.     I  could  see  his 
eye  nash  sometimes  when  some  of  them  wero  getting 
off  their  little  speeches,  trying  to  let  us  know  in  what 
lofty  society  they  moved  and  what  superior  folks 
they  were.     Indeed,  it  became  more  and  more  clear 
tu   me   that   Gordon    was    never   meant   to   be   the 
minister  of  a  rich  congregation  at  all.     His  father 
was  a  shepherd-it  used  to  mor^fy  the  f^randecs  of 
St.   Andrew's  dreadfully  to  hear  him   say  so-and 
Gordon  was   full  of  the  simple  sincerity  and  manly 
independence  that  I  felt  sure  must  have  marked  his 
aiicestors.     And  I  don't  think-  (iordon  ever  preached 
a  sermon  without  unconsciously  making  tLem  feel 


ftrf!=L  *£». 


^W^ 


ai2 


THE   A77IC   GUEST 


that  he  was  independent  of  them,  if  ever  a  man  was, 
which  was  the  simple  truth,  for  my  hubband  had 
his  warrant  from  far  higher  hands  than  then.,,  and  I 
don't  think  he  knew  wliat  it  was  to  feel  the  fear  of 
man. 

Wherefore  it  came  about,  and  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  that  Gordon  found  a  great  deal  of  his 
work  among  the  poor.  Little  by  little,  to  the  dis- 
may of  many  of  the  aristocrats,  he  added  to  the 
number  of  the  lowly  that  made  their  church  home 
in  St.  Andrew's.  And  he  founded,  and  cherished,  a 
mission  chape!  m  Swan  Iloiiow,  one  of  the  most  de- 
graded i)arts  of  the  city.  I  really  believe  the  rich  were 
jealous  of  the  poor,  for  Gordon  seemed  to  love  them 
bc>st  and  to  be  happiest  when  he  was  among  them. 
But  the  poor  people  worshipped  him  for  it— and  1 
believe  I  did  too. 

Oh,  how  I  envied  him  !  For  he  seemed  to  have  a 
source  of  happiness  of  which  I  knew  nothing.  I  can 
remember,  when  my  days  were  frll  of  teas,  and  at- 
homes,  and  all  sorts  of  social  functions,  how  much 
more  full  and  satisfying  his  life  seemed  to  be  than 
mine.  Sometimes  1  would  get  Harriet  to  make  a 
little  jelly,  or  some  delicacy  of  that  sort,  for  the  poor 
^ick  folks  he  used  to  tell  me  about ;  but  Gordon  gave 
them  his  heart,  his  life,  his  love— and  that  made  ali 
his  work  a  perpetual  joy  to  him.     This  was  the  deep 


M^^m^^ji^^m 


Wm^  ::^' 


"OUR  L^py  of  The  SNOWS"  ^xy 
spring  from  which  he  drank-and  I  had  no  part  in  it 
at  all.  I  used  to  punch  the  score  cards  at  evening 
part.es.  and  sometimes  I  played  for  the  dancers  as  be- 
forc-thus  did  my  poor  hungry  heart  n.bble  at  the 
phantom  crumbs  that  fell  fron,  the  rich  man's  table 
But  both  my  heart  and  I  uxre  starving. 

It  strikes  me  as  wonderful,  now  that  I  sit  and  look 
back  upon  it  all.  how  inevitably,  and  by  what  diffc.- 
cnt  paths,  and  under  what  varying  influences  I  came 
closer  to  Gordon's  side. 


I*g? 


XVI 


A    KNIGHTLY   GUEST 


(( 


D 


O  you  suppose  we  could  afford  a  carriage 
for  the  Ashtons'  dinner?  "  I  asked  Gordon 
one  evening,  the  evening  before  the  func- 
tion in  question. 

Gordon  hesitated.  "  I'm  afraid  not,  my  dear,"  he 
said  ;  "  surely  it  isn't  very  far  to  walk." 

"  Everybody  else  will  have  one,"  I  remonstrated,  a 
little  ruefully. 

'♦  Well,"  he  answered  cheerfully, "  most  of  them  can 
afford  it  better  than  we  can.  And  those  who  can't," 
as  he  smiled,  rather  disdainfully  I  thought,"  a  good 
many  of  those  who  can't,  will  have  one  just  the  same 

even  if  they  daren't  look  the  butcher  and  the  baker 

in  the  face.  There  are  a  good  many  like  that  in 
Hertford,  you  know — in  St.  Andrew's  Church,  for 
that  matter,  I'm  afraid,"  he  added.  "  But  a  minister 
couldn't  afford  that  any  better  than  the  other,"  he 
concluded,  reaching  for  the  elaborate  invitation  I  held 
in  my  hand  the  while. 

"Gordon,"  I  said  suddenly,  and  I  fear  my  face 
showed  what  prompted  the  question, "have  you  ever 

214 


A    KNIGllTLY    GUHST  215 

thought  what  a  good  time  we'd  have  had,  if  you  had 
been  something  else— if  you  had  been  a  doctor,  I 
mean,  or  a  pohtician,  or  something  of  that  sort  ?  Or 
a  lawyer,"  I  added ;  "  yes,  a  lawyer— what  a  stunning 
lawyer  you'd  have  made,  Gordon.  You'd  be  getting 
five  times  your  present  income,  if  you'd  been  a  lawyer." 
"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  in  his  rather  blunt  Scotch 
way. 

"  It's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  answered.  "  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  there  are  a  dozen  lawyers  in  I  lert- 
ford  who  could  buy  and  sell  you  over  and  over  again, 
so  far  as  money  is  concerned— and  they  haven't  got 
half  the  brains  you  have— aren't  in  the  same  class 
with  you  as  public  speakers.  And  yet  here  you  are, 
the  minister  of  a  lot  of  fashionable  people  and " 

"  We  have  a  good  many  now  that  aren't  fashion- 
able, thank  heaven,"  he  interrupted,  as  if  he  were 
quite  proud  of  it;  "  you'd  he  surprised,  Helen,  if  you 
only  knew  how  many  poor  people  have  connected 
with  St.  Andrew's  since  I  came.  But  that  doesn't 
please  you  much,  does  it,  dear?"  a  shadow  coming 
over  the  eager  face. 

"Why?"  I  asked.  Yet  I  knew  the  meaning  and 
the  truth  of  his  words. 

"  You  don't  love  the  poor  people,"  he  answered, 
his  words  coming  slow,  as  if  with  pain  ;  his  eyes  plead- 
ingly fixed  on  mine. 


3l6 


ruE  A-rric  guest 


•K-^i. 


"  What  makes  you  say  that,  Gordon  ? "  and  my 
voice  shook  a  little. 

•'  Because  I  sec  it  every  day,  dear.  You  don't  care 
for  that  part  of  my  work  at  all,"  and  his  voice  was 
inexpressibly  sad.  "  I  know  what  you  mean  by 
what  you've  just  said— about  wishing  I  had  been  a 
lawyer." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wished  it — you  know  I  didn't,"  I 
corrected  vigorously. 

"  But  that's  what  you  meant.     -   know   it— I've 
known  it  long.     Oh,  p     darling,"  he  suddenly  broke 
out,  like  one  owning  at  idst  to  a  long-hidden  pain, "  do 
you  think  I've  been  blind  to   it  all  ?     Do  you  think  I 
haven't  seen  the  noble  efforts  my  brave  little  wife  has 
made  to  be  interested  in  my  work— and  all  her  disap- 
pointment that  we're  poor  and  humble — and  her  long- 
ing for  the  things  that  I  can  never  give  her.     And  yet 
you've  been  so  lovely  and  unselfish  about  it  all,  my 
dear  one,  trying  to  hide  it  from  me,"  and  I  could  feel 
my  cheeks  burn  with  shame  at  the  words.     One  of 
his  arms  was  partly  round  my  neck,  his  hand  toying 
with  my  hair ;  and  he  drew  me  close  and  held  me 
tight.    The  shelter  was  wondrous  sweet. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  sai ',  the  tears  coming  as  I  spoke, 
•<  don't  talk  to  me  like  that ;  please  don't— you  know 
I  was  so  young.  And  I  never  had  any  experience 
like  this — I  was  brought  up  so  differently.     And  I  do 


A    KNIGHT L  Y   GUEST 


217 


want  to  be  happy — so  much,  I   want  to  be  happy 
And  you,  dear,  I  want  you  to  be  happy  too." 

"  And  so  I  am,"  he  exclaimed  passionately "  ex- 
cept that  I'm  lonely;  I'm  so  lonely,  Helen.  Oh,  if 
you  only  loved  the  things  I  love,  the  poor,  the  sick, 
the  sorrowing — if  you  only  loved  them  all,  and  loved 
to  help  them — I  wouldn't  trade  places  with  the  rich- 
est and  the  grandest  of  them  all." 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  sobbed, "  how  could  you  say  it  ? — 
you  mean  you'd  trade  now  I     And  I've  tried  so  hard." 

He  soothed  me,  caressing  and  comforting  as  though 
I  were  a  child.  "  It's  been  hard  for  you,  my  dar- 
ling," he  murmured  in  my  ear ;  "  and  you  don't 
know  all  you've  been  to  me — you  really  don't." 

"  It  was  only  because  I  tho'sght  you  were  so 
clever,"  I  sobbed  out  like  a  baby  ;  "  and  I  thought 
you  weren't — weren't  getting  your  reward." 

"  Oh,  child,  you  don't  know  what  rich  rewards 
there  are,"  ';<;  said  dreamily  ;  "  what  rich  rewards — 
if  men  only  knew  where  to  look  for  them." 

I  lay  a  long  time  in  his  arms,  the  imposing  invi- 
tation unheeded  on  tne  floor.  And  I  longed— I  be- 
lieve I  prayed  in  a  faint  kind  of  way — that  I  might 
yet  know  something  of  the  secret  joy  that  made  up 
my  husband's  hire.  Yet  I  was  almost  in  despair  ;  for 
the  image  of  all  that  others  did,  and  all  they  had,  and 
the  vision  of  what  might  also  have  been  ours,  kept  re- 


2l8 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


curring  to  my  mind.  I  thought  our  life  was  pretty 
gray,  its  hmits  hard  and  stern,  and  I  may  as  well  be 
candid  enough  to  say  so.  But  I  think  I  would  have 
followed  Gordon  anywhere — if  I  could  only  have 
found  the  way.  My  gropings  for  it  must  have  been 
pathetic. 

"  I'll  give  up  the  Ashtons'  dinner,"  I  said  hero- 
ically at  last,  looking  up  at  Gordon  through  my 
tears.     I  knew  he  would  kiss  me — and  he  did. 

"  But  you  shan't,"  he  said  firmly.  "  You'll  go— 
and  so  will  I.  .hat's  the  one  Httle  triumph  I'll 
never  give  up ;  I'm  always  so  proud  of  my  wife  at 
times  like  that — we  can  beat  them  on  their  own 
ground."  Then  he  stooped  down  and  recovered  the 
gleaming-edged  cardboard  from  the  floor. 

This  invitation  was  our  passport  to  what  was  evi- 
dently to  be  a  very  swell  dinner  at  the  Ashtons'. 
They  had  a  lion  in  the  house — a  mighty  guest,  I 
mean  by  that.  He  was  a  Sir ;  not  only  a  Sir,  but  a 
Baronet ;  which,  it  seems,  is  a  loftier  brand,  a  repeat- 
ing kind  of  Sir.  His  full  name  was  Sir  Austin 
Beachcroft,  and  he  was  a  British  brewer.  His  ap- 
pearance gave  abundant  indication  that  he  was  one 
of  his  own  best  customers.  Mr.  Ashton,  it  seems, 
had  met  him  while  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  the 
Baronet  was  graciously  stopping  off  for  a  visit  of  r 
day  or   two   on   his  way  to   the   Rockies  to   hunt 


A    KNIGHTLY   GUEST  2,9 

grizzlies.     He  arrived  on  a  Saturday  night ;  and  it 
was  impressive  to  see  the  solemn  hush  that  came 
over  the   congregation   in   St.  Andrew's  when  the 
Ashtons  led  their  Baronet  down  the  aisle  the  next 
morning.     Mr.  Ashton  came  first,  and  there  was  a 
look  on  his  face  that  showed  his  doubt  as  to  whether 
or  not  he  was  a  mortal  man.     They  came  late,  of 
course,  but  I  attribute  that  to  Mrs.  Ashton— for  that 
is  a  womanly  wile.     I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face 
as  she  passed— it  bore  a  look  of  thankfulness,  almost 
of  heavenly  bliss,  as  if  she  were  now  ready  to  depart 
m  peace.     In  an  adjoining  pew  I  could  sec  Harriet's 
cousin  ;  vainly  she  strove  to  join  u  "   ng  psalm, 

gazing  at  the  procession  as  though  she  considered 
the  ways  of  Providence  unjust. 

The  Baronet,  throughout  the  service,  bore  himself 
as  piously  as  though  he  had  never  heard  of  beer. 
Yet  it  was  evident  enough  that  he  never  for  one  mo- 
ment forgot  that  he  was  a  creation  of  his  Sovereign. 
When    the    hymns    were    being   sung,   he   looked 
abstractedly  in   front  of  him,  as  though  they  were 
addressed    to    him;    at   sudden   intervals    he    would 
break  in  and  sing  about  half  a  line,  just  to  show  that 
he  was  human  like  ourselves.     Every  now  and  then, 
while  tile  sermon  wa^   in   progress,  he  would  cast  a 
su-ift  glance  around  to  make   sure  that   everybody 
was  looking  at  him  ;  finding  that  they  were,  a  little 


220 


THE   AT71C   GUEST 


jerk  and  a  stare  heavenward  evinced  the  sHght  irrita- 
tion that  rank-  or  genius  is  supposed  to  feel  in  being 
thus  remarked.  Once  or  twice  he  snapped  his 
watch  when  Gordon  didn't  stop  just  when  he  might 
have  done.  This  set  me  against  him  at  once,  for 
the  sermon  was  a  beautiful  one;  besides,  I  knew 
what  ailed  the  Baronet — he  wasn't  accustomed  to  go 
so  long  without  a  sample  of  his  wares.  When  the 
collection  was  taken  up,  he  was  human  enough ; 
even  Mr.  Ashton  started  a  little  at  the  size  of  his  de- 
posit ;  for  he  gave  after  the  fashion  of  his  fathers, 
which,  as  Gordon  afterwards  told  me,  was  formed  in 
the  copper  age. 

Well,  the  very  next  night  came  the  dinner ;  to 
which  Gordon  and  I  sallied  forth.  It  does  make  a 
woman  wince  a  little  when  she  finds  herself  coming 
on  foot  to  a  gate  quite  surrounded  by  the  carriages 
of  her  fellow  guests.  Harriet's  cousin,  I  remember, 
alighted  from  her  equipage  just  as  I  arrived,  and  we 
went  in  together ;  it  was  but  poor  comfort  to  reflect 
that  my  servant  called  her  Mary  Ann. 

"  You're  the  belle  of  the  ball,"  Gordon  whispered 
to  me  as  we  came  down  the  stairs  a  few  minutes 
later  ;  "  I'll  bet  a  sovereign  the  Baronet  will  write 
home  about  you  before  he  goes  to  bed." 

"  Don't  be  surprised,"  I  answered  gaily,  "  if  I 
take  to  the  woods   as   soon   as  I  meet  him — you 


^■•^  ,^-i 


A    KNIGHJL  Y    GUEST 


T_->l 


know,    I    never    sau'   a    real    tu'o-le-gcd    lordling 
before." 

We  were  duly  presented,  the  IJaronct  staring  at  us 
a.s  though  we  were  so  many  pretty  faw.is  reclaimed  by 
civilization  from  the  wilds.  Harriet's  cousin  was  as 
red  in  the  face  as  a  turkey-cock,  and  her  attitude  was 
one  of  reverence  itself.  Mr.  Ashton  stood  apart  in 
a  state  of  semi-unconscious  bliss,  looking  like  a  kind 
of  glorified  liarnum.  His  wife  was  torn  between 
feverish  glances  towards  the  glittering  table  that  could 
be  seen  in  the  distance  and  longing  looks  fixed  upon 
the  Baronet.  She  was  wondering  how  she  might 
properly  surrender  herself  to  be  borne  in  to  dinner. 

In  due  time,  however,  we  were  all  seated,  my  es- 
cort proving  the  wealthy  husband  of  the  woman  who 
lud  comforted  me  about  my   prayer-he   was   the 
magnate  who  had  made  his  money  out  of  lard.     My 
first  remark  to  him,  after  we  were  seated,  disclosed 
my  Ignorance  of  the  proper  pronunciation  of  his  name. 
I  suppose  I  was  nervous.     He  corrected  me,  adding 
"1  fine  original  vein  :  -  But  call  me  what  you  like  as 
long  as  you  don't  call  me  too  late  for  dinner,"  spread- 
'ng  his  napkin  over  an  expanse  that   indicated  his 
counsel  was  probably  serious  enough. 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Ashton  asked  Gordon  to  say 
grace  ;  and  the  tone  of  his  request  showed  how  highly 
honoured  he  considered  both  the  Almighty  and  his 


322  run  A  Tin:  gui^st 

minister  to  be  by  ll>c  observance.  Tliis  l.ni-licc!. 
there  foUowecl  that  pecuhar  silence  which  s..  ..Ikn 
wraps  a  seU"-conscii)us  company,  all  of  whom  an-  Ixnt 
on  conduclint;  themselves  with  unusual  propriety. 

But  the  Uaronct  was  soon  in  midstream,  his  spuits 
rising  hit;her  ami  higher  as  he  remarked  the  dekience 
with  which  his  every  word  was  greeted.     "  \'vs,"  he 
was  saying  when   I  first  caught  the  drift  of  his  talk, 
•'  I  had  a  great  time  in  New  York— was  fairly  beset 
with  their  reporters,  though,  all  wanting  interviews. 
They're  a  great  lot,  those  New  Yorkers,"  he  went 
grandly  on,  "  nearly  all  of  them  either   colonels  or 
millionaires— any  one  who  isn't  one  or  the  other  is 
sure   to   be   a   judge.     Greatest    conglomeration    of 
newly  rich  I  ever  saw  in  my  hfe— but  it's  wonderful 
how  they  worship  what  they  haven't  g*)t.     A  lot  of 
humbugs,"  he  added  scornfully,  "  iirctcnding  to  de- 
spise  titles  the  way  they  do— and  yet   they    fairly 
worship  them.     The  Duke  of  Marlborough  happened 
to  be  in  New  York  the  same  time  as  me  ;  and,  really, 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  anything  else  in  the  papcis 
except  our  movements— we  simply  couldn't  sneeze, 
without  it  being  in  the  papers.     Oh,   they're   very 
young  yet."  he  added  patronizingly.  "  they're   very 
young  indeed." 

"  Mrs.  Laird's  a  Yankee,  Sir  Austin,"  one  of  the 
lady  guests  ventured  timidly,  designating  me  by  a 


A    KN KjH  r L  Y  (J  (I lis  T 


22-i 


sideward  ^jl.mcc.  I  due  s.iy  I  wa , n't  lind  to  iden- 
tify, lor  I  know  my  cluclv,  were  l)l,i,'ii)<,'  and  my  eyes 
aasliiii^'.  It's  wonderlid  liow  iiuk  h  dearer  your 
country  j^'rows  when  ^nu're  in  exile. 

llie  I5anjnet  adjusted  his  moii-K:Ii:  and  looked  at 
nic  with  some  interest  across  the  talilc.  "  Well,"  he 
l)c;;an  with  a  very  condescendini.j  siiiiL,  "  tlicic  are 
sime  nice  Yankee;,  you  kixuw — (<^r  instance,"  nod- 
din;^'  at  me  as  iie  spoke. 

"  I'm  n(;t  a  Yankee,"  I  broke  in  with  vehemence. 
"  I'm  no  more  a  Yankee  tlian  you  are,  sir."  1  forgot 
all  about  the  liandle  to  his  name. 

"  Were  you  addressing  Sir  Austin  ?  "  Mr.  Ashton 
niterrupted,  meaning  reprrmf;  he  was  .so  horror- 
stricken  that  he  had  brought  hi.s  erstwhile  busy  jaws 
to  a  sudden  stanilstill. 

"  I  wa.s  addressing  anybody  who  calls  me  a  Yankee," 
I  retorted,  controlling  a  voice  that  wouUl  shake  in 
spite  of  me. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Laird,"  the  informant  of  a  moment  arro 
interjected,  "  I  always  understood  you  were  an  Amer- 
ican." 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  I  returned,  commanding  a  smile 
by  this  time—"  but  that's  a  very  different  being  from 
a  Yankee.  And  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not," 
I  went  r  with  a  quite  ardent  heart ;  "  because  I'm  a 
Suutherner— my  father  was  a  Confederate  soldier,"  I 


234  THE   ATTIC    GUEST 

broke  out,  regardless  of  the  canons  of  good  taste, 

•«  and  he  was  wounded  twice  at  Gettysburg,  so  he 

was." 

"  Did  he  recover  ?  "  the  Baronet  enquired,  in  a 
tone  that  was  meant  to  be  sympathetic. 

I  stared  at  the  man.  "  Did  he  recover  ?  "  I  echoed , 
" ho.v  long  do  you  think  it  is  since  Gettysburg  was 
fought.  Sir  Austin  ?  " 

I  verily  believe  the  title  was  music  to  the  man.  In 
any  case,  he  mellowed  perceptibly.  "  It  was  a  fool- 
ish  question— from  any  one  who  has  ever  seen  you,' 
he  admitted  ;  "  and  they  were  a  brave  lot  of  men, 
even  if  they  did -get  beaten,"  he  continued  cordially 
enough  ;  "  they  put  up  a  great  fight,  did  those  rebels, 
Mrs.— er  ?  "  as  he  paused  for  my  name. 

This  was  too  much.  "  They  weren't  rebels, '  I 
flung  back ;  "  nobody  has  a  right  to  call  them  rebels 
—they  were  soldiers  fighting  for  their  country— and 
they  weren't  beaten,  they  were  starved,"  I  added ; 
and  I  wouldn't  have  cared  if  he  had  been  the  proudot 
duke  in  England. 

The  lordlet  adjusted  his  monocle  afresh  and  took  a 
wondering  look  at  me.  I  do  not  know  what  reply, 
if  any,  he  was  about  to  make  ;  for  just  then  came  an 
interruption  fraught  with  more  of  consequence  than 
would  have  appeared  likely  on  the  surface. 

"Mr.  Laird's  wanted,  sir,"  announced  a  servant. 


A    KNIGHTLY   GUEST  225 

Wherewith  Gordon  excused  himself  for  a  moment 
and  1   irried  out  to  the  hall. 

'•  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  let  me  run  away,  Mr. 
Ashton,"  he  said,  returning  after  a  brief  absence. 
"  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  go." 

"What!"  exclaimed  our  h  it  incredulously; 
"  have  to  go  !_the  dinner's   only  just  begun,  sir." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  replied  my  husband,  "  but  I've 
been  scut  for— somebody  wants  me,  and  I  must  gu," 
Aith  which  he  turned  back  into  the  hall,  for  Mr. 
Ashton  had  already  risen  from  his  chair.  He  was 
^till  protesting  as  he  followed  him  out;  the  talk 
around  the  tabic  began  again,  but  I  could  still  catch 
the  conversi'tioa  in  the  hall, 

"  Vou  can't,  possibly  get  away;  I  wns  counting  on 
you,  as  you  know,  to  propose  the  health  of  Sir 
Austin.  I'll  send  word  that  you'll  couic  the  first 
thing   in   the   morning— whoever   it    is   that    wants 

}'0U." 

I  couldn't  catch  the  response ;  but  I  knew  right 
wcil  wi.at  line  it  would  takx-. 

"  ^'O,  I  don't  think  they  belong  to  St.  Andrew's," 
I  heard  Gordon  a  niomciit  later  :  "  not  as  far  as  I 
'"•now,  at  least.  The3-'rc  vcr>-  poor,  I  should  fancy, 
'"'■'Jin  the  quarter  they  Ii\c  in." 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  j-ou'rc  under  no  obligation 
t-   Qo,"    I  could  just  he.-'-  Mr.  Ashton  saying,  in  a 


23b 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


I 


tone  that  chilled  me ;  "  you'll  find  it  quite  enough, 
I  imagine,  to  look  after  your  own  people.  What's 
the  matter  anyway  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Gordon,  "  but  the  messenger 
said  they  wanted  me  right  away — it's  a  matter  of 
duty,  Mr.  Ashton." 

Just  with  this  Mr.  Ashton  drew  the  door  sluit 
behind  him.  I  did  not  wait  to  analyze  the  impulse 
that  suddenly  seized  mc  at  hastily  arose,  with  a 
word  of  apology  to  my  hostess  and  slipped  swiftly  out 
into  the  hall.  I  do  not  think  either  uf  the  nu:i 
noticed  me. 

"Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  this,"  Mr.  Ashton 
was  exclaiming,  "  that  I  consider  it  a  slight  to  iii\- 
guest—:,  downiight  slight,  sir;  an  nsult,  I  mi^Ll 
almost  say,  to  Sir  Austin  Beachcroft.  And  1  know 
he'll  have  his  own  opinion  of  it,  sir — and  you  c;in 
explain  to  him  yourself— I'll  make  no  apologies  for 
you,  mind." 

Gordon  replied  just  tlic  way  I  would  have  ex- 
pected him  to  :  "I  don't  care  a  rap  for  all  the  ."-;r 
Austins  in  the  kingdom,"  he  said,  moving  on  up  tin.- 
stairs  to  get  his  coat ;  "  it's  probable  some  one's  dyin^^ 
— and  wants  me." 

Mr.  Ashton  followed  a  step  or  two  up  the  stair. 
"  I  suppose  I  may  take  that  to  mean,"  liis  voice  nov." 
thick  with  anger,  "  that  you  don't  care  a  rap  for  nie 


5> 


A    KNIGHT L  Y   GUEST  22-j 

either;  nor  for  anybody  else  of  the  people  that— that 
liire  you-and  pay  you.  Mr.  Laird."  the  words  coming 
hot  and  hissing,  his  flaming  face  turned  ut,  towards 
Gordon  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

I  could  see  Gordon's  eyes  flash  from  where  he 
stood.  "  If  you  think  I'm  your  liired  servant.  Mr. 
Ashton— or  anybody  else's,  when  my  duty's  con- 
ccrned-you'll  find  out  your  mistake.  We  needn't 
carry  this  discussion  any  further."  as  he  turned  and 
went  into  the  dressing-room. 

"  ril  carry  it  further,  sir."  Mr.  Ashton  half  shouted 
in  a  tone  so  loud  I  feared  his  knightly  guest  would 
hear;  "  I'll  carry  it  till  I  teach  you  which  side  your 
bread's  buttered  on_ril  see  you  from  the  pulpit  to 
the  door.  It  was  me  that  got  you  here— and  I'll 
get  you  out,  sir.  I'll  get  you  out."  he  flung  as  a  part- 
ing threat,  turning  to  make  his  way  back  to  the 
Jining-room. 

My  course  was  clear.  I  passed  our  angry  host 
without  a  word  as  I  climbed  the  stair;  the  most 
;irdent  days  of  love  and  courtshij)  had  never  found 
my  heart  so  hungry  for  the  man  I  loved  as  it  was 
that  moment. 

"  Vou  must  nv..  ne,"  said  Gordon,  as  I  swept 
into  the  room  where  he  was.  "  What  made  you 
leave,  dear— please  go  back.  Things  are  bad  enough 
as  they  are." 


228 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


But  I  sealed  his  lips  with  my  burning  own  and 
held  him  one  moment  in  my  arms  before  I  turned 
to  make  ready  for  departure.  I  could  sec  his  fac<' 
brighten  with  a  wonderful  light,  and  I  had  my  in- 
ward in  the  pride  and  fondness  with  which  his  c  c 
rested  on  me. 

Nobody  intercepted,  nor  did  any  speak  to  us, 
as  we  made  our  way  out  to  the  street.  The  night 
was  dark,  a  few  heavy  rain-drops  beating  in  our 
faces. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?  "  Gordon  asked  me 
as  we  moved  away  from  the  gate. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I — "  only  I'm  going  with 
you." 

"  My  darling  !  "  was  all  he  said, 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  going  to  be  a  storm,"  I  pre- 
dicted, looking  up  at  the  ill-omened  sky  after  we 
had  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"The  storm  is  past,"  he  said,  his  arm  stealing 
about  me  in  the  dark ;  "  the  night  is  growing  beauti- 
ful to  me — oh,  my  wife,  my  darling  !  " 


w^i^im'mp.^r^^. 


'M^ 


XVII 
MY   ORDlNylTION 

WE  had  u-alked  for  perhaps  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes  before  we  came  near  our 
destination,  tlie  character  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood gradually  indicating  that  the  spot  we  were 
seekmg  was  near  at  hand.  One  or  two  enquiries 
sufficed  to  locate  the  house,  a  tumble-down  old  cot- 
tage that  stood  in  a  little  from  the  street. 

"  Be  you  the  minister  ?  "  asked  a  woman's  voice 
a^   she  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  our  knock.' 
shading   the   lamp   with   her   hand;    .-be  you   Mr 
Laird  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gordon,  "  I  came  as  soon  as  I  got 
ycur  message;  and  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  Al- 
though I  think  he  surmised  why  she  had  sent  for 
him ;  there  is  that  in  a  mother  s  face  and  voice  which 
only  one  kind  of  sorrow  gives.  Besides,  he  had  seen 
a  hght  burning  dimly  in  the  little  room  at  the  end  of 
the  house. 

"  Its  our  Jennie."  the  woman  said,  standing  trans- 
fixed a  moment  as  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell  on  me 
I^or  I  was  still  in  my  dinner  dress  ;  and  I  was  hold- 
ing the  train  up  in  my  hand,  and  there  were  flowers 

229 


2)0 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


wa 


in  my  hair.     Neither  of  us,  I  imagine,  had  thought 
of  this. 

"  This  is  my  wife,"  said  Gordon ;  and  I  never 
heard  him  say  it  with  more  tenderness  or  pride — nor 
had  it  ever  sounded  sweeter. 

The  sac  --nd  tired  face,  still  wondering,  gave  me  a 
faint  smile  of  welcome  as  we  passed  within  the  door. 

"  You  can  stay  in  the  room,"  she  said,  leading  the 
way  into  what  I  supposed  they  might  call  the 
parlour.  At  least,  there  was  a  table  in  it,  and  one  or 
two  chromos  on  the  wall ;  but  I  noticed  a  dishevelled 
couch  in  the  corner,  evidently  for  some  tired 
watcher. 

"  Jennie's  been  wantin'  ye  for  long,"  the  woman 
said  to  Gordon  as  she  set  the  lamp  on  the  table  ; 
"  but  she's  worse  the  night,  an'  me  an'  Martha  got 
afraid.  Besides,  she  was  askin'  for  ye  ;  she  "  -nt  to 
the  Bethany  Sunday-school,  sir.  and  she  oflr  you 

when  you  was  there" — thi',  was  Gordon's  .mssion 
school — "  you  put  your  hand  on  her  head  once,  at 
the  festival,  I  think,  an'  poor  Jennie  never  forgot  it, 
she  was  that  pleased.  But  I'm  feared  she'll  never  be 
back  there  again,  sir,"  the  woman's  voice  quivering 
as  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  daughter  ?  "  I  asked, 
for  my  whole  heart  went  out  to  the  woman  in  her 
grief. 


/•'/K    ORDINATION  231 

"  Well,  ma'am,  wc  c'un't  hardly  know.     But  it  be- 
gan with  a  eruel  bad  eough  more'n  six  months  ago 
-an   ,t  keeps  always  gettin'  a  little  worse.     She  got 
It  at  the  factory-her  and  Martha  both  worked  in 
the  knittm'  factory,  an'  the  air  was  so  bad.  and  the 
hours  ..as  so  long;  but  she  just  had  to  keep  workin' 
on.  maam.  'cause  their  father's  dead,  and  there's  two 
younger  than  them.     I  earn  a  little  now  an'  a^ain 
gom     out    washin'-but    it    was    really   Jennie  \nd 
Martha  that  kep'  the  hon.e  goin'."  the  woman  con- 
eluded,  heaving  a  weary  sigh. 
"  What  factory  was  your  daughter  in  ?"  I  asked 
"  Oh.  in    Mr.  Ashton's-Ashton    &   Quirk,"   the 
-o.nan  answered.  "  an'  they  don't  seem  to  care  any- 
t.Hn  for  the  hands-excep'  gettin'  the  work  out  o' 
t'^em,"    she    added,    with    another    sigh;    -Jennie 
■vanted  to  stop  and  rest,  first  along,  when  she  wasn't 
cchn    good-but  they  said  another  girl  would   .^et 
I'er  job  if  she  stopped.     So  she  had  to  go  on  as  long 
as  she  could.     I  guess  we'll  go  in  now,  sir ;  we  won't 
be  long,  ma'am,"  as  she  led  Gordon  from  the  room. 
As   I   sat   alone   I   could   hear  the  dull  hackin- 
cough  at  frequent  intervals,  sometimes  with  sounds 
of  struggle  and  of  choking.     Then  would  come  a 
stillness,  broken  by  the  low  sound  of  voices  ;    and 
soon  I  could  catch  Gordon's  rich  tones  in  prayer      I 
could  not   hear   the  words,  but   a  nameless  power 


W^H 


2}2 


THE   A771C   ^iUEST 


seemed  to  accompany  the  sound  ;  I  knew  that  his 
very  heart  and  hfe  were  being  given  to  the  holy 
task. 

A  few  minutes  later  Gordon  came  softly  into 
the  room  where  I  was  waiting.  "  Come  on  in," 
he  said  ;  "  come  on  in  and  see  Jennie.  I'm  sure  it 
would  do  her  good." 

I  hesitated.     "  Is  she  dying  ?  "  I  asked. 

Gordon  nodded.     "  It's  consumption,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,  don't  ask  me  to  go.  I'm  so 
frighten  ^d  of  death  ;  and  I  couldn't  help  her  any — 
I  couldn't  say  a  word,"  for  if  I  ever  felt  my  helpless- 
ness, it  was  then.  "  I'm  afraid  I  would  only  be  in 
the  way,"  I  supplemented,  not  without  much 
sincerity. 

"  A  loving  heart's  never  in  the  way,"  my  husband 
answered  in  the  lowest  tone.  His  face,  radiant  a 
moment  before  from  its  sacred  duty,  was  now 
shadowed  with  sorrow ;  his  eyes  gave  me  a  final 
glance  of  loneliness  and  longing  as  he  turned  to  go 
back  to  the  dying  bed. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,  wait,"  I  cried  faintly,  sudden  resolve 
gathering  in  my  heart.  "  Wait,  darling,  and  I'll  go," 
with  winch  I  hurried  to  his  side.  My  reward  was  in 
his  eyes.  I  could  see  them,  even  in  the  darkened 
hall  through  which  we  passed  into  the  room  of  death. 

Such  a  humble  room  it  was,  bare  and  unadorned. 


r^  ^m.:  at 


MY   ORDINATION  ^i? 

The  bed  stood  in  the  corner,  and  even  my  untutored 
eyes  saw  at  a  glance  that  hfe's  race  was  nearly  run 
for  her  who  lay  up.n  it.  Large,  dark  eyes  looked 
out  at  me  from  the  wasted  face,  wistful  in  death  s 
myste.  ious  appeal.  Poor  Jennie  !  she  little  knew  how 
great  was  the  ministry  yet  remaining  to  her. 

For.  as  in  a  moment,  the  repulsion  and  the  fear  all 
left  my  heart,  filling  fast  with  a  pity  and  a  longing  I 
could  neither  understand  nor  control.     It  must  ha-e 
been   God's    prompting,  and    nothing   else      I   suv 
nothing    but    the    dying    face.      The    mother   was 
there;  and  Martha,  her  checks  wet  with  tears-  the 
younger  pair,  too,  were  standing  near  the  ued    '  Rut 
I  seemed  to  behold  none  of  them-not  even  Gordon 
For  I  moved  inst:  .ctively  towards  the  bed,  my  gaze 
fixed  on  the  dying  girl.     Her  eyes  seemed  to  call 
me;  the  lure  of  the  eternal  was  within  them  and  I 
marvelled,  little  of  spiritual  insight  though  I  had.  at 
the  deep  tranquillity  that  lay  far  within.     She  smiled 
as  she  saw  me  coming  closer,  and  I  sat  down  on  the 
bed  beside  her. 

r  could  not  but  notice  that  her  eyes  rented  on  mv 
face  m  eager  wonder;  she  seemed  to  love  to  look 
-so  constant  was  her  gaze.  And  it  was  evident_so 
eternal  is  the  womanIy_tlnu  she  was  attracted  by 
what  I  wore ;  my  lovely  gown,  the  lace  upon  its 
bosom,  the  diamond  pendant  with  its  chain  about  my 


"^^^'■'^'^^l.km!^'''l£'iCA 


2)4 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


neck,  the  rich  flowers  in  my  hair — all  made  their 
appeal  to  the  dying  eyes. 

"  Oh,  it  v/as  lovely  ! "  she  murmured,  after  we  had 
spoken  a  word  or  two. 

"  What  was,  dear  ?  "  I  answered,  for  I  had  no  idea. 

"  What  he  said — what  your  husband  told  me.  He 
made  it  so  easy — and  so  btautiful.  I'm  not  afraid  to 
die — not  now,  ma'am." 

I  marvelled  as  I  beheld  the  strange  serenity  that 
seemed  to  wrap  her  like  a  garment.  "  Oh,"  she  went 
on  faintly,  "  it  must  be  lovely  to  be  able  to  do  that ; 
to  be  able  to  tell  people,  when  they're  dying,  about 
the  Saviour — and  about  heaven.  Do  you  do  it  too, 
ma  am  ? 

I  shrank  before  the  pervading  eyes,  for  tliey  seemed 
to  look  through  and  through  the  soul  with  the  pene- 
trating power  that  death  imparts.  "  No,"  I  said 
tremblingly,  "  no,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did." 

"  Rut  you  will,  won't  you  ?  "  she  went  on  calmly  ; 
"  he'll  tell  you  how — and  you'll  tell  it  too.  Oh,  it 
comforts  so — I  believe  it  because  he  does,"  )ier  ejcs 
turning  now  in  reverence  to  Gordon's  face. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,  I'll  try,"  I  faltered,  and  the  eager 
eyes  looked  content.  Something  prompted  me  to 
put  my  hands  to  my  hair,  though  I  had  forgotten  the 
flowers  were  there.  "  Would  )ou  like  them,  Jennie?  " 
as  I  placed  them  in  the  wasted  hand.     I  had  no  need 


MY   ORDINATION  335 

to  ask,  so  grateful  was  the  light  that  k.ndled  the  wan 
face. 

"  "^^^'^  ^^"^'■o'-t  too."  she  murmured.  Then  sud- 
denly :  -  Can  you  sing  ?_I  love  when  people  sing  to 
me,  if  I  love  them." 

"  Not  very  well.  Jennie."  I  answered,  for  I  knew  I 

could  not  trust  my  voice. 

"  Please  do,"  she  pleaded;  -just  some  little  song  " 
I  turned  to  Gordon ;  he  was  standing  above  me. 

"Let  us  try,"  he  said;  "  suppose  we  sing  •  Forever 

with  the  Lord  '  ?  " 

I  consented.  But  a  quick  impulse  came  to  me 
and  I  whispered  to  him  :  '•  One  of  your  psalms.  Gordon 
—that  lovely  one  about  the  Valley." 

I  saw  how  glad  he  was.  <«  You  must  sing  it  too  " 
he  said;  and  then,  in  tones  of  more  than  womanly 
gentleness,  he  began  the  noble  strain. 

"Yea  though  I  v.-alk  in  death's  dark  vale 
Yet  will  I  fear  none  ill, 
For  Thou  art  with  me  and  Thy  rod 
And  staff  me  comfort  still." 

I  didn't  know  then,  and  hardly  know  exactly  yet 
what  those  two  last  lines  really  mean  ;  but  no  one' 
could  fail  to  see  their  power.  They  have  been  often 
toted  when  life's  lamp  was  burning  low;  and  the  far- 
off  music  of  Immortality,  whatever  be  the  meaning 


23b 


THE   A'T7IC   GUEST 


of  the  words,  echoes  through  them.  Jennie's  face 
was  beautiful  to  see. 

I  had  never  had  hour  Hke  to  this.  I  can  remem- 
ber yet  how,  once  or  twice,  the  thought  of  all  the 
revelry  I  had  left  behind  floated  before  my  eyes  ;  the 
lights,  the  flowers,  the  richly  appointed  table,  the 
sumptuous  dinner,  the  circle  of  exalted  gursts  in 
glorious  array,  the  speech  and  the  echoing  song — 
but  they  all  seemed  to  me  now  as  the  dust  beneath 
my  feet.  Pale  and  tawdry,  garish,  did  it  all  ap- 
pear in  contrast  with  the  high  reality  of  the  scene 
that  had  succeeded  it.  It  must  have  been  God's 
miracle  to  my  soul.  I  know  not.  But  I  speak  only 
the  simple  truth  when  I  say  that  what  was  about  ne 
now,  the  humble  home,  the  squalid  room,  the  dimly 
burning  lamp,  the  wail  of  the  broken-hearted,  the 
pale  light  of  death  upon  one  wasted  face  ;  these 
stood  before  me  as  life,  very  life — and  the  other  had 
receded  into  the  phantom  shadows  of  unrea'  'a-  and 
death.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  found  myself  at  last ;  I 
knew  I  had  found  my  husband,  long  sundered  by 
the  cruel  shadow  my  own  foolish  heart  had  cast ; 
and  I  dimly  hoped  that  the  dear  Father  of  us  all  had 
found  us  both. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Gordon  beckoned  me  out  into 
the  little  hall,  "  I  guess  we'll  have  to  go  now,"  he 
said;  "  it's  almost  midnight — and  you'll  be  tired  out." 


j!^l^!^  ?Lik  iJ:*-*' fes'  t  -.i^B^f!*^- 


MY  ORDINATION  33, 

"  Don't."  I  said  earnestly,  ••  don't  make  me  go 
Gordon.     Mow   can   we   leave  here P-.h.-.s   dying' 
Do  you  think  we'll  ever  see  her  agaui  ?  " 

Gordon's  look  of  love  was  beautiful.     "  x\o  "  he 

^a.d.  ..never  again,  hrre-^nd   we'll   wait,  my' dar- 

'"ir.      the     words     conung     low    and     passionate. 

Look,    as  he  cast  his  eyes  .vithin  the  door.  -.  she 

wants  you—she's  motioning  for  you." 

Which  was  true  enough,  and  in  a  moment  I  was 
bendmg  over  the  dying  form. 

"  You'll  comfort  mother,  and  Martha.  ■.•  n't  you 
-and  the  children-when  I'm  gone  ?  Poor  Martha, 
she  11  have  it  all  to  do  now."  the  words  coming  faint 

andpUiful;..allthework.  I  mean-she  works  so 
l^ard.  And  she  has  to  go  to  the  factory,  even  after 
she  sits  up  all  night." 

"  I'll  do  all  I  can.  dear."  I  promised,  trying  to 
speak  calmly,  though  the  tears  were  running  down 

n.y  cheeks.     "  Hi  come  and  see  them  as  often  as  I 

can. 

•'  Call  them  all."  she  said,  rousing  herself 
I  had  not  far  to  call.     In  a  moment  they  were  all 
about  the  bed.     Then  the  emaciated  arms  stole  out 
and  laid  hold  of  a  rusty  napkin,  or  towel,  that  lay 
upon  the  bed  beside  her.     Slowly  she  unfolded  it 
producing  its  contents  one  by  one. 
"  -"^Ins     is    for   you.    Ilriiic,"    as    she   handed    the 


^uK*iM^:. 


fyi 


238 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


little  brother  a  many-coloured  flashing  tie  ;  "  I  saved 
up  to  get  it  for  you  for  Christmas — but  then  I  knew 
I'd  have  to  get  it  sooner.  And  I  made  this  for  you, 
Chrissie,"  as  the  thin  hands  lield  out  a  httlc  pin- 
cushion to  the  younger  sister.  "  And  I  want  you 
to  have  my  httlc  locket  for  a  keepsake,  Martha  ;  it's 
nearly  new.  And  this  is  for  )'ou,  mother,"  as  the 
sobbing  woman  bent  above  her  child;  "it's  my 
Sunday-school  Bible — and  it  has  the  tickets  I  was 
saving  for  a  prize  ;  I  can't  ever  use  them  now.  And 
the  book-marker  that's  in  it  is  for  you,"  as  her  eyes 
turned  to  Gordon  ;  "  I  worked  it  for  you  myself,  and 
I  was  going  to  give  it  to  you  the  first  Sunday  you 
came  down." 

She  sank  back,  exhausted.  One  by  one  .they 
turned  away,  each  bearing  the  precious  treasure. 
Gordon  held  his  book-,  "-er  out  before  him  like  a 
sacred  thing,  and  I  could  see  his  breast  heaving  as 
his  arm  went  round  one  of  the  children.  My  own 
eyes  were  streaming,  for  I  had  never  witnessed 
scene  so  holy  ;  the  last  will  and  testament  of  prince 
or  magnate  had  never  majesty  like  this. 

Suddenly  Jennie  motioned  me  down  be  -de  her 
again.     "  I  didn't   have  anything  for  you."  she  mur- 
mured in  pitiful  explanation,  "  because  I  didn't  ki     " 
you  were   coming.     So    I  just  give   you   my — n. 
love,"  she  faltered  low,  "  and  I  want  to  tell  you  how 


MY   ORDINATION  j^ 

■nuchyouVc  helped  „,.-.o  die.  And  y.„'ll  of.e.ulo 
".  -,.  ,ou,"  she  went  on,  .evert,,,,-  ,o  .  ,e 
"••""'•■;'  "■•"  •""«  ^-«'y  have  been  pr„:,p„j  Z 
.-c  bu,  Cod  Himself,  every  >vord  ^Z^^X 
to  my  inmost  heart.  ^ 

••  Ve.  ■•  I  cobbed, ..  oh.  yes,  I  will,  if  God  will  help 
me— but  I  can  do  so  little." 

■■No"  she  whispered  back,  "  „o-so  mueh.     \-o„ 

don  t  know  how  much  i,  helps,  for  a  poor  Birllik, 
n.c  JUS.  to,  jus,  to  see  son.ebody  thafs-tha,  s  swe 
-a    lovely,"    she  said    timidly-.,  and  that  wa 
.«..y  clothes.     J..st  to  see  somebody  that  loves  ; 
«en  ,f  they  didn't  speak  a  word-that  helps  a  lot  ■■  ' 
gently   hushed    the  words,    --he    little  circle 
athered    around  the  be,,  again.     The  hours   went 
Slowly  by. 
Sudd,  ,3,   ,^^^    ^^^^    ^^^^^^    ^^.^^      ^^  ^^^^^ 

.  m      she  murmured,  strugghn.  now  for  breath; 
that  about-about  the  vale.     It's  dark  " 

d  all  of  tnumph,  he  began,  my  trembling  voice 
blending  with  his  own  : 

"  Vea  though  I  walk  through  death's  dark  vale 
Vet  wlllIfear^oneil^• 


^nd  ju.t  as    we   finished   the  Shepherd   Psalm 


the 


.Ji    ^Liirm^^k       ^l 


240 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


wasted  face  lighted  up  with  pallid  beauty,  the  rap- 
tured eyes  looked  their  last  farewell,  and  the  tired 
toiler  passed  into  the  rest  of  God. 

It  was  a  very  solemn  joy  that  wrapped  our  hearts 
as  Gordon  and  I  walked  home  together  through  the 
slowly  breaking  dawn.  I  knew  that  our  life-son^ 
had  begun  at  last,  and  my  heart  was  filled  with 
reverent  ecstasy. 

"  Take  mc,  Gordon  "  I  said,  as  we  entered  and 
closed  the  door  behind  us.  "  Take  me,"  the  tears 
novv  flowing  fast,  "  and  never,  never  let  me  go." 

"  You're  mine,"  was  all  his  answer  as  his  arms 
closed  about  me.     "  God  gave  me  you,  my  darling." 


(  :''L' 


xviri 

THE     D^YSPRING    r R Q m    ON   HIGH 

IT  matters  not  how  parched  and  bare  the  plain 
of  hfc  may  be,  one  hving  spr.ng  of  joy  can 
ennch  and  beautify  it  all.  One  nia.ster  r^lad- 
ncss  can  .nake  the  heart  strong  a«a.„.st  all  the 
>1^  of  hfe;  it  matters  not  how  fierce  and  an.ry  be 
the  vv.nds.  .f  the  heart  have  shelter.  If  God  be  for 
us  who  can  be  against  us  ? 

Gordo,,  and   I  I,ud  c.rlainly  had  our  .haro  of  the 
■IkoMifc;    -nd  , he  wi„d.  of  trouble  I,.,d  f„„„d  „3 
out.     Of  c,.un,c,  it  doesn't  s.en,  so  l,ard  ,o  bear,  „o„ 
•ha.  as   pas,;    bu,    1    reckon    .ew   yo„„,   ,„a,,,ed 
couples  ever  encountered  more  head  ,vind  or  sailed 
...ore  troubled  seas.     I  know  everybody  thinks  their 
""  """^^•^  ^«  ""••  "orst ;  if  „.e  could  trade  with 
other  people  for  a  week,  we'd  probably  be  Rlad  to 
.radc  back  when   the  ti„,e  was  up.     ^et   ..  cannot 
be  demed,  so  iar  as  we   we,e  concerned,  that  we  had 
a  good  deal  to  sadden  us. 

To  begm  with,  we  were  far  fron,  home  and 
-....drea.  Gordon  s  relatives-he  seldom  spoke  of 
»"y  b«  h.s  father-were  far  across  the  sea.     .Mine 

2  f  T 


242 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


were  a  thousand  miles  away,  in  the  sunny  South- 
land, separated  from  me  now  by  the  unhappy  storm 
that  had  gathered  about  my  husband's  head.  We 
never  spoke  of  going  home  ;  for  Gordon,  I  knew, 
would  not  consider  it,  and  I  would  not  go  without 
him. 

Then,  too,  there  was  little  now  to  take  me  there. 
My  mother  had  passed  away.  It  was  a  couple  of 
years  after  we  came  to  Canada  that  the  end  had 
come.  Suddenly  stricken  with  the  hand  of  death 
while  summering  in  the  remote  mountains  of  Western 
Virginia,  the  dear  spirit  had  found  its  rest.  I  couU! 
not  be  notified  till  it  was  too  late  to  go,  even  for 
the  last  sad  offices ;  so  I  went  not  at  all.  The 
heavenly  tenderness  of  my  husband  through  all  those 
days  of  sorrow  lingers  with  me  as  a  precious  memory. 
Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt  Agnes  wrote  me  once  or 
twice,  and  always  sympathetically  enough.  But  it 
was  evident  that  they  recognized  through  it  all  how- 
wide  was  the  gulf  that  divided  me  from  che  days 
and  scenes  of  girlhood.  And  they  sent  their  "  re- 
spects "  to  Gordon,  which  is  about  the  politest  f(jrni 
of  epitaph  that  can  be  graven  on  the  tomb  of  friend- 
ship. 

It  was  in  the  very  midst  of  this  parched  and 
dreary  plain  (to  quote  the  words  with  which  I  began 
the   chapter)   that   a   spring  of  living  joy  suddenly 


i-5^^i^^j?^S^ 


aaSBBlseLSISHBtf^flW  'JSSi^'<i^'^^^:;^P^iHkl 


I. 


rke  D^YSPRINC  From  On  HIGH  ^, 
flung  forth  its  wate.  ,-  amid  the  troublous  winds,  our 
hearts  found  the  dearest  of  all  earthly  havens 

It  seen,s  hard  to  realise  it  „ow_bu,  I  don't  be- 
^eve  Gordon  and  .  were  unhappy  before  baby  came. 
Unhappy,  1  „,an,  because  there  .vasn't  any.  I  don't 
thmk  we  ever  felt  that  life  was  poor  and  skimped 
ad  sdent;  I  don't  believe  we  looked  and  longed  at 

The  ,  r  '?''"""'  ""''  "'^  ^"-^"Scst  part  of  .t. 
The  troubles  that  people  with  children  had-the  im- 
pr.o„ment  by  day-and  the  marches  by  night-a„d 
the  plamfve  serenades  of  the  early  dawn;  the  care 

andrespo„sibilityanddisappointment,andoftenheart- 
break  of  later  years-these  were  so  frequently  men- 
.oned  between  us  that  I  fear  we  came  to  indulge  a 
k.nd  of  blasphemous  complacency  because  we  ^ere 
■mmune.    Then,  too,  we  sometimes  whispered  the  old 
plustry  that  we  had  each  other,  in  devotion  undi- 
v.«  w,thanothcr_which  is  nothing  but  a  honeyed 

Anyhow  I  know  this,  that  in  those  pre-parental 
days  I  would  ask  people  whom  I  had  just  mct-and 
2"  "o  raisgivings_as  to  whether  or  not  they  had 

y  cluldrcn.  nut  j  „evcr  dared  to  do  it  after  the 
neiv  love-birds  bcjan  singing  i„  my  mother-heart  It 
•«emed  cruel,  lest  they  should  be  compelled  with 
*ame  to  acknoulcdge  they  had  none;  even  in  my 
■nost  mconsiderate  years  I  would  never  ask  a  homely 


Aa5v;v'*.ms>«f  ^-ii 


244 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


t  ■■ 


spinster  if  her  dance  card  were  full — if  I  may  pluck 
an  illustration  from  the  giddy  days  of  old. 

It  was  with  trembling  joy  that  we  drew  near,  never 
so  near  together,  to  this  great  gladness  of  our  lives. 
Then  came  ;«/  great  darkness  ;  then  the  holy  dawn. 
I  swiftly  forgot  all  about  the  darkness — for  joy  that  a 
man  was  born  into  the  world. 

Gordon  was  beside  me  when  I  realized  it  all,  show- 
ering little  timid  words  of  endearment  down  upon  me 
as  though  he  feared  I  were  hardly  able  to  stand  them. 
His  hp  was  quivering  when  I  looked  up ;  and  I  saw 
his  glance  turn  from  me  to  something  that  lay  beside 
me  on  a  pillow.  A  low  gurgling  kind  of  sound  came 
from  the  little  bundle  on  the  top  of  it. 

"  Isn't  that  sweet  ?  "  I  murmured — for  I  knew— • 
my  eyes  fallen  shut  again.  Gordon  looked  at  me 
with  overflowing  eyes — then  he  turned  and  went 
softly  out  of  the  room. 

I  was  faint  and  weak  when  he  came  back ;  but  I 
held  his  hand,  lest  he  should  go  away  again. 

"  Say  a  little  prayer  for  the  baby,"  I  whispered ; 
"  say  it  out  loud,"  and  Gordon  knelt  low  beside  the 
bed  and  prayed.  But  I  noticed  that  all  his  prayer  was 
for  me,  that  I  might  be  given  back  to  him— and  I  told 
him,  before  he  had  time  to  get  up,  that  he  had  forgotten 
about  the  baby.  So  he  prayed  again,  for  us  both  this 
time ;  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  before  felt  what  a  true 


Ue  DAYSPRING  From  On  HIGH      j^, 

priest  of  God  was  .his  „a„  of  mine,  and  I  rejoiced 

hat  .he  new  life  which  ,ay  beside  n,e  was  bre  .h "^ 

.s  breath  and  sou,  of  his  sou,.    And  I  .hink  we  bo^h 

forgo,  m  those  blessed  days,  a,l  .he  sorrows  of  the 

C:e       '"™°"  °'  '"^  "--«•  «■=  P-"«  Of  the 

What  a  new  world  it  a„  turned  outto  me  !     A  new 
heaven,  .ndeed;  and  a  new  earth-which  was  more 
.0  us  JUS.  then-as  the  Bib.e  says.    Everything  was 
-nderfu      I  can  remember  yet  the  foohsh  d'igM 
w..h  wh,ch  one  day  I  counted  all  the  baby's  toes- 
It  ,'h  'A'^'  '''""^'="-    '  ■•"-•  °f  course, 
hau,     had  happened  often  enough  before,  but  stil, 
■t  truck  me  as  beautiful  that  .hey  shou,d  have  come 
ou  so  even  ;  a  miscaicula.ion,  considering  how  many 
have  .0  be  outfitted  'or  the  journey,  would  have 
«en,ed  pardonable  in  anybody's  baby  but  my  own 
And  I  had  never  known  before  how  i„te,lige„.  a  baby 
could  be  ,n  ,ts  very  early  dawn.    For  instance,  mine 
had  a  strange  habi.  of  lifting  his  ,i.,,e  hand  high  above 
his  head,  then  slowly  letting  it  drop. 

f,I'  ?!!'  ""''°  °'"  "''"'  *"'  8«ture  means,"  his 
.her  (those  words  were  a  new  strain  of  music)  said 

_>o  me  one  day  as  we  bended  over  .he  babe  ,oge.her- 
yoi,  don  t  suppose  he  sees  that  fly,  do  you  ?  "  refer- 

rmg  to  a  winged  intruder  that  was  hovering,  like  our- 

selves,  above  our  treasure. 


246 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


"  Oh,  no,"  I  answered ;  then  suddenly,  "  Gordon, 
do  you  know,  I  beheve  I  can  tell  what  baby's  trying 
to  do.  He's  trying  to  pronounce  the  benediction, 
just  as  sure  as  anything.  That's  you  in  him,  Gor- 
don ;  he's  going  to  be  a  minister." 

"  I  beheve  that's  just  what  he's  doing,"  said  Gordon, 
enchanted ;  "  look — there  he's  doing  it  again." 

"  He  does  it  just  like  you,  Gordon,"  I  repeated. 
"  Nobody  need  ever  tell  me  there's  nothing  in  hered- 
ity.    Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  " 

"  It's  mysterious,"  said  Gordon,  fascinated  as  he 
watched  the  little  cleric ;  "  we'll  have  to  call  him  some 
name  suitable  for  a  minister." 

"  We'll  call  him  Gordon,"  I  said  decisively — "  that's 
a  good  Presbyterian  name.  I  called  him  that  this 
morning,  all  alone,  and  he  looked  up  and  cooed  like 
as  if  he  understood." 

"  We'll  call  him  Harold,  for  your  father,  if  you 
like,"  my  husband  proposed  magnanimously. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said,  "  his  name  shall  be  Gordon. 
But  we'll  call  it — I  mean — we'll  give  mother's  name 
to  her — if  he  ever  has  a  little  sister." 

"  Mercy ! "  said  Gordon,  drawing  his  breath  in  fast. 

"  I  always  think  just  one's  so  lonely,"  I  explained, 
my  eyes  fastened  on  the  isolated  posterity  beside  me, 
"  I  was  just  one — the  only  one  in  our  family,  you 
know." 


Wmt^j^^mtm^^fm'^mmFmimmi.  '■  -^m^'^-m" 


ti?-V'. 


The  DAYSPRING  From   On   HIGH       247 

"  The  only  one  in  the  world-for  me."  said  Gordon 

and  he  kissed  me.    -  Look,  your  sons  trying  to  sneeze ' 

.sn't  .t  wonderful  how  soon  they  pick  things  up  ?  -    ' 

"  Our  son.  dear."  I  corrected  reproachfully,  aftc--  I 

had  helped  baby  through. 

Gordon  laughed.  -.  We're  a  pair  of  idiots."  he 
said.  ..  We'll  have  to  straighten  up,  Helen,  or  we'll 
spoU  the  youngster.  I  can  see  you're  going  to  idolize 
him  already ' 

"  Love  never  spoiled  anybody,"  I  protested,  "  and 
It  won't  spoil  him  either." 

"  No."  conceded  Gordon.  "  but  he  mustn't  be  in- 
dulged ^ov  much.  I  believe  in  making  them  obey- 
and  not  giving  in  to  them  ;  that  old  adage  about  spar- 
ing the  rod.  you  know." 

"  He  shan't  ever  be  touched."  I  exclaimed ;  «  no- 
body  shall  ever  lay  a  finger  on  my  baby." 
"  Our  baby."  corrected  Gordon,  smiling. 
"But  about  what  you  said  about  the  rod  "  I  re- 
sumed.    "  You  don't  surely  mean " 

"Don't  let  us  get  excited,  dear,"  and  Gordon 
sm.led  down  at  me ;  «  but  of  course  children,  and 
especially  boys,  must  be  taught  to  obey.  That's  one 
of  the  great  advantages  of  a  public  school." 

"  "^  '^^"'t  ever  go  to  a  public  school."  I  declared 
v^armly.  »  No  child  of  mine  will  ever  be  sent  with  a 
lot  of  common  children-in  one  of  those  big  schools  " 


l^^,'* 


248 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


SRfc 


"  What  will  you  do  with  them  ?  "  said  Gordon,  in- 
tensely interested, 

"  I'll  teach  them  myself."  said  I.  "  I'll  teach  them 
together;  I'll  keep  them  together  all  the  time. 
There's  no  influence  on  a  boy  like  his  little  sister." 

By  this  time  Gordon  was  just  as  absorbed  in  them 
both  as  I  was.  "  You  can  train  the  girl  the  way  you 
like/'  he  said,  stroking  my  hair  while  he  spoke; 
"  that's  a  mother's  privilege — but  I'll  have  to  take  a 
hand  with  the  boy.  And  I'm  a  firm  believer  in  pun- 
ishing them,  when  they  need  punishment." 

"  Gordon,"  I  pleaded,  as  my  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
"  do  you  mean  to  say  you'd  whip  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gordon,  very  solemn ;  *•  yes,  if  he 
needs  it." 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  cried,  for  it  was  all  very  real  to 
me,  "  you'll  make  him  afraid  of  you ;  he'll  learn 
to  dislike  you,  Gordon — and  that  would  break  my 
heart,"  the  words  quivering  as  they  came. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  he  said,  gently  caressing  me, 
"  don't  let  us  say  any  more  about  it — perhaps  I  won't 
have  to  whip  him  much.  All  I  mean  is,  that  I  don't 
beheve  in  children  getting  their  own  way ;  we  mustn't 
indulge  him,  I  mean.  And  you  know,  dear,"  this 
coming  with  a  very  winning  smile,  "  you  know,  I'm 
older — and  I've  had  more  experience  than  you,  dear." 

"  No,  you  haven't,  Gordon,"  I  cried  triumphantly; 


^•^  ■  ' 


fm^ 


ne  DAYSPRim  From  On  HIGH      .4, 

"you  shouldn't  »ay  that.     IVe  had  jus.  as  many  as 

/ou,  Gordon    and  I  know  then,  better;  Tve  studied 

h>m  more,  right  here  with  him  all  the  time  " 

But  jus.  then  our  solitary  descendant  broke  out 

th.ng.    Gordon  leaped  to  duty.    •■  It's  his  bottle  "  he 
exc  a,med  excitedly,  beginning  a  wild  search  on'  the 
able,  under  the  pillow,  beneath  the  bed,  the  quest 
ontmued  ,n  the  bathroom  and  an  adjoining  cham- 
ber.   "  Yes,  yes,  baby,"  he  kept  saying  as  hesearched  • 
yes,  fathefU  get  him  his  'ittle  bottle;  he's  hungy' 
•s  he,  the  tootsy  wootsy  ?    Yes,  father'll  bing  it  in  a 
mmute."    The  much  desired  article  was  finally  dis- 
covered  in  the  cradle  beside  the  bed ;  and  Gordon,  in 
full  canonicals,  knelt  lowly  on  the  floor  as  he  pacified 
tne  clamorous  lips. 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  giving  them  their 
own  way  ?  "  said  I. 

"  He's  too  h-ttle  to  know  the  difference  yet,"  said 
the  bending  one.  his  back  to  me  as  he  adjusted  the 
mechanism  anew. 

"Oh.  Gordon."  I  said.  «  you're  very  young,  as  a 
father — very  young." 


rcm.^ 


XIX 


1?^ 


=«*,..  '-. 


THE   TAINT   OF  HERESY 

OUR  son  was  growing  into  a  goodly  lad  (every- 
thing happened  either  before  or  after  baby 
was  born)  when  it  first  actually  broke  on 
me  that  Gordon's  Doctorate  had  been  a  dear-bought 
prize.  For  Gordon  was  now  a  Doctor  of  Divinity — 
and  he  had  won  it  by  examination,  too,  long  years 
of  severe  study  and  wide  reading  having  gone  before. 
I  didn't  begrudge  the  time,  and  the  seclusion,  this 
had  implied ;  but  I  just  hated  the  whole  thing  when 
I  found  out  how  it  had  affected  Gordon's  views.  1 
never  did  believe  much  in  ministers  being  such  ter- 
rible students  as  many  of  them  are ;  I  verily  believe 
as  many  preachers  are  spoiled  by  books  as  are  helped 
by  them,  for  they  often  grow  less  human  while  they're 
growing  more  profound.  The  Bible  and  the  daily 
paper — truth  and  human  life — some  great  preacher 
pronounced  his  two  main  books,  and  I'm  inclined  to 
agree  with  him.  Gordon  gave  me  one  of  his  deep 
books  to  read  once — Harnack,  I  think,  was  the  name 
of  the  man  who  wrote  it — and  I  went  to  sleep  over 
it  for  my  husband's  sake  but  not  for  Mr,  Harnack's. 

2SO 


THE  TAIN1  OF  HERESY  ,„ 
Gordon  may  call  that  kind  of  tteology  new  I 
thought,  but  its  not  inter«,i„g  ' 

The  whole  thing-abou,  Gordons  views,  I  mean- 
-me  out  .bis  way.    Of  course  1  fancy  a  «ood  many 
already  suspected  he  wa.,  rather  modern  in  bis  creed 
especially  Mr.  Ashton,  „bo  became  more  ZZt 

Zry"'!*^"''''"^^'^"''''^''"-^^^'''"'^^ 
actory     l)„t  I  never  knew,  „or  any  one  eUe,  bow 

far  Gordon  bad  drifted  from  the  old  moorings,  tin  I 
ccnam  evangelist  came  to  bold  a  mission  I  nLt 

rom  a         7  '  '°"'*''  P"-%l""-changed 

rom  a  pounder  mto  an  ex-pounder,  so  to  speak_a„d 

he  loved  to  give  us  a  whifT  of  his  malodorous  past 

veryt,mehego,achance;Irecko„befa„cid 
any  one  who  had  had  such  a  violent  attack  of  „ 
was  .mmune  for  the  rest  of  bis  days.  I  went  to  hJ: 
7  —1  times  :  but  one  night  he  said  if  be  had  I 

'  r  ;''""  '  "^^  °'  ■=""=  '"  --^  >--  or  a 
tl  e  snake.     I  knew  then  he  was  either  a  fool  or  a 
'  ■•.  0'-      -       I  bad  no  mind  to  listen  to  either_so 
1  never  went  near  bim  again 
However,  Gordon  was  presiding  one  night  when 
s  man  was  preaching;  and  the  evangelist  suddenly 
broke  out  w,th  .be  s.a.emen.  .bat  the  most  moral,  or 
*=  most  philanthropic,  man   in  the  whole     o.  Id 
-ould  get  a,  hot  a  place  in  hdl  as  the  w-^t  nur- 


i 


2^2 


THE   j4'TTIC    GUEST 


dercr  or  thief,  if  he  didn't  believe  what  he  ought  to 
believe. 

"  Isn't  that  so,  Dr.  Laird  ?  "  he  said,  turning  to  my 
husband. 

••  No,"  said  Gordon,  "  it's  not." 

Well,  as  you  may  understand,  there  was  something 
pretty  to  pay.  The  evangelist  nearly  fainted  on  the 
spot ;  as  soon  as  he  came  to  himself  he  asked  them 
all  to  join  in  prayer — and  he  prayed  that  Gordon 
might  be  converted  that  very  night.  Gordon  I 
whose  shoe's  latchet  he  was  not  worthy  to  unloose. 

"  You've  denied  your  Master,  sir,"  Mr.  Ashton  ac- 
cused Gordon  afterwards,  having  waited  for  him  at 
the  door;  "  you've  repudiated  the  great  doctrine  of 
salvation — in  the  presence  of  a  thousand  people,  sir." 

Gordon  motioned  him  aside.  When  he  told  me 
all  aboi'  .  afterwards,  he  avowed  himself  ashamed  of 
the  d< .  ee  of  temper  he  had  shown,  but  I  said  I'd 
have  been  ashamed  of  him  if  he  hadn't. 

"What's  this  you  accuse  me  of?"  demanded 
Gordon. 

"  You  aren't  fit  to  be  a  minister,"  affirmed  Mr. 
Ashton  hotly ;  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you  as  the  pastor  of 
St.  Andrew's,  sir." 

"  Why  ?  "  pursued  Gordon. 

"  Because  our  church,  sir,  our  church  has  always 
been  noted  for  its  orthodoxy.     We've  ahvays  held  to 


f4^:ymim^-     -^^-^ 


■2:^^^' 


-"•'.''i  li  •' 


^^ 


:t-->' 


THE    7AIN7   OF   HERESY        ,53 

the  simple  Gospel-and  you've  gone  back  on  it.  sir 
I  knew  .t  was  coming;  I  could  tell  ,t  by  the  thinw 
you  preached  about."  ^ 

J  What  things,"  aUhough  Gordon  kno„  right 

on",rd  T  !"'  '"""'"  ""  '""^""  ■■  y°"  P-c'-'O 
on  .  .e  duty  of  e,nploye.  of  bbour-a  l„.  of  stuff 

about  fresh  a,r,  and  short  hours,  and  taking  care  of 

VVH       ,^  '"'  °^    ""'P'"'-'  ^'"ff  '*e  t  a° 

When  ,  go  .„  ,hureh,  sir,  I  wa„,  the  Gospel  t  e 

.mple  Oospel-and  nothing  but  the  Gospel    M^ 
Seybolds    the  same  way;    he  says  he's  disgust  d 
w..h  n,any  of  your  ser.ons,  about  worldly  things 
Vou  s.,ck  ,0  the  Gospel,  sir,  and  worldly  things  will 
ta^e  care   of  themselves,"   concluded   Mr.  AThton 
wagging  his  pious  head. 

"  You  mean  Seybold  the  brewer,  don't  you  ? "  en. 
quired  Gordon. 

"  Ves."  said  Mr.  Ashton  ;  "  and  he's  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  our  church,  as  you  know  yourself  " 
"I  don't  kno  .  anything  about  it,"  was  Gordon's 

c-t  reply  ;.b.  I  don't  wonder  at  his  zeal  for  the 
Gospel^or  •  .urs  either.     I  don't  know  any  men 

'nsur'I^e'^"^^'"^^^-^-^-'^.  and  elec- 
tion sure      He  s  a  vamp.re.  sir-and  so  are  you." 

A  what?"  roared  Mr.  Ashton.     M'mawhat?" 

"-'d  not  know  what  a  vampire  was.  of  course;  but 


.  A 


254 


THE   A77IC   GUEST 


there  was  something  in  Gordun'b  voice  and  eye  that 
made  the  word  tell  its  meaning.  Gordon  would  have 
withered  him  ju'^t  the  same  if  lie  had  called  lum  .•, 
rectangular  hypotenuse. 

"  A  vampire,  I  said,"  dardon  hurled  back  at  him  ; 
"  both  of  you  hve  on  the  defenselcb.s  and  the  puor. 
It's  sickening,"  and  Gordon's  voice  rang  higher,  "  to 
hear  you,  or  him,  prating  about  the  Gospel,  while  he 
makes  his  wealth  out  oi  human  misery — and  you, 
you  oppress  the  poor — y  »u  grind  their  faces,  and  you 
know  it.  You  take  your  blood  money  (rom  pot)r 
girls  that  have  to  toil  in  that  swat-box  of  yours — 
and  you  don't  care  whether  they  live  or  die,  so  long 
as  they  serve  your  selfish  ends.  I  have  visited  more 
than  one  dying  girl  that  got  her  death  in  your  cm- 
ploy — as  Jennie  McMillan  did — and  yoii  prance  your 
horses  past  the  door  when  they're  dying,  and  even 
after  the  crape  is  on  it,  aid  you  never  stop  to  ask  iur 
them ;  and  then  >  ou  come  prattling  to  me  about  not 
preaching  the  Guspel  !  " 

Gordon  paused  ;  out  of  breath,  I  reckon.  By  thu 
time  quite  a  number  of  the  crowd  had  eddied  bacic, 
listening  attentively,  you  may  be  '^t-re,  to  this  candid 
conversation.  One  or  two  of  them  gave  me  a  de- 
tailed account  later  on. 

"I  appeal,"  blu'^tered  Mr  Ashton  "I  anneal  to 
those  who  know  me.     I  spoke  to  you  as  an  officer  of 


THE    TAIN7   OF  HERESY        „, 

St.  Andrews.     I  „.vc  been  .  raiU.fu,  supporter  of 
he    c  „rch_.„d  ,v.  ata,,  p„j  „„  J,^ .,  ,^ 

b.urlcd  out  ,rrclcva„tly,  hard  put  to  „  to  „,.ke  dc 

tense. 

"  \^;  ^-'-a'/"  a  squeaking  v..cc  ca.nc  suddenly 
from  the  bystanders.  ^ 

Mr.  Ashton  turned  sharply  round.  ••  I  haven't  >_ 
Where's  the  man  that  dare,  to  .ay  I  haven't -he 
hectored,  searching  the  group  for  tlie  intcrr  ,pter 

"  I  n.  the  mon."  came  quietly  from  th  ,s  ut  a 
httle   old   Scotchman  as   he   moved   .lo.l>   to   the 

n)nt:..yedidna'payoor  Jock  what  ye  owed  lum 
He    took    the   consumption   workin'    ^or   ye"   the 
squeaky  voice  went  on.  «•  an'  when  he  lay  deein'     e 
never  lookit  near  him  ;  an'  the  day  o'  his  funeral.'  ye 
drove  by  the  hoose  wroot  lookin' at  us.     An' he  was 
a  foreman  t,;i  ye  fur  mair  nor  twenty  year "  the 
P^amt.ve  mdictm.n.  proceeded-- an'  ye  owe  .h.m  a 
wee  b.t   mark  C  rcspec'  like  that.      An'  ye  never 
paKl,t    but  it's  ower  late  noo."     Then  the  little  man 
^ppcd    back  among  the  bystanders;   Mr.  Ashton 
01  lowed  h.m,  loudly  protesting  that  the  dcadservant 
had  got  his  wages  regularly,  the  second  Tuesday  of 
'^very  month.  ^ 

Gordon  took  advantage  of  the  diversion  to  move 


*^v'ay;  and  ^he  story,  substantially  as  I 


was  given  to  me  on  h 


'y 

is  arrival  home. 


na\c  loid  It, 


356 


7tlE  ATTIC   GUEST 


I  did  not  question  him  closely  about  the  original 
cause  of  the  discussion — about  his  theological  views, 
I  mean ;  but  it  stai  ted  an  uneasiness  that  grew  upon 
me  day  by  day.  And  a  few  weeks  later  I  learned 
something  more  that  did  not  reassure  me  much. 

I  was  sitting  with  Harold — we  had  named  our  son 
Gordon  Harold;  but  the  latter  half  was  what  we 
called  him,  to  avoid  confusion — one  evening  in  the 
study ;  two  ministers,  visitors  to  some  church  gather- 
ing and  guests  of  ours,  wer-  talking  on  the  piazza. 
By  and  by  Harold  grew  silent,  and  so  did  I ;  which, 
I  suppose,  led  the  two  brethren  to  think  I  had  disap- 
peared.   And  they  talked  freely. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  one  of  them  said,  whereat  I  sat  up 
and  listened,  "  that  Laird's  gone  that  way.  He  can't 
hold  those  views,  and  his  pulpit,  at  the  same  time." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  his  views  really  are  ? " 
the  other  asked. 

"  They're  anything  but  sound,"  his  friend  replied, 
"  and  that's  the  plain  English  of  it.  Any  man  who 
holds  them  has  no  right  to  be  in  the  ministry."  My 
blood  began  to  sizzle.  I  knew  this  reverend  brother 
— a  comfortable  pastor  of  a  comfortable  congregation, 
who  spent  most  of  his  time  simply  trying  to  be 
**  sound,"  to  use  his  own  word ;  saving  doctrines 
and  losing  men,  as  I  heard  Gordon  say  once  in  a 
sermon. 


THE    TAINT   OF  HERESY        257 
"  What  are  they  ?  -  persisted  the  other 
"  Well."  began  the  first.  "  I  don't  believe  he's  very 
sound  on  the  miracles.     And  then,  he  contends  we're 
all  divine-doesn't  deny  the  divinity  of  our  Lord 
however.     But  I  think  he  often  closes  his  prayer  with- 
out saying  <  for  Christ's  sake ' ;  at  least,  so  I've  heard  " 
••  Perhaps  he  means  it  just  the  same."  suggested  his 
companion. 

"  Then  he  ought  to  say  it-a  prayer  that  hasn't 
that  doesn't  go  higher  than  the  roof,  in  my  opinion. 
And  I  believe  he  contends  no  man  can  explain  the 
Atonement-from  an  intellectual  standpoint,  that  is. 
He  told  me  as  much-I  told  him  I  could  explain  it 
all  right.  He  replied  that  he  interpreted  it  more  by 
h.s  heart  than  his  reason.  And  that's  dangerous 
gr  Jnd.  Ml.  Forest,  very  dangerous  ground  " 

"Isthatall?"  the  other  enquired,  evidently  not 
overcome  by  the  arraignment. 

"  No.  it's  not.     They  say  he  believes  prayer  has  no 
power  to  influence  the  course  of  events-regards  it 
only  as  a  kind  of  pious  communion ;  doesn't  believe 
•n  praymg  for  anything  in  particular,  I'm  told.     And 
he  has  his  doubts  as  to  who  wrote  the  Hebrews      I 
told  him  it  was  Paul-but  he  still  seemed  to  have 
doubts.    And  he  thinks  the  Confession  of  Faith  is  too 
Jong  and  too  intricate.     That's  dangerous  too-ifs 
the  thm  end  of  the  wedge.  Mr.  Forest,  the  thin  end 


258 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


of  the  wedge,"  and  from  where  I  sat  I  could  hear  the 
censor  shut  his  lips. 

"He's  a  mighty  devoted  minister,  anyway,"  the 
other  interposed ;  "  I've  hau  long  talks  with  him  my- 
self. And  there's  only  one  thing  troubles  me — I'm 
afraid,  I  really  am,  that  he  clings  too  much  to  a  merely 
ethical  Christ.  He's  tinged  with  that,  I'm  sure; 
glories  in  Him  as  a  Teacher,  and  Healer  of  man- 
kind, and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Laird's  a  great  healer 
himself,  you  know — he's  a  marvel  with  the  sick,  and 
the  sorrowing,  and  the  poor.  But  I'm  afraid  he's 
drifting — he  began  with  Drummond,  and  ended  with 
Harnack."     I  recognized  the  soporific  name. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there's  another  thing,"  resumed  the  or- 
thodox one ;  "  Laird  has  doubts  as  to  whether  or  not 
sorrow  comes  from  God.  Affliction,  you  know ;  be- 
reavement, suffering,  the  death  of  little  children— 
everything  like  that.  He's  inclined,  I'm  afraid,  to  at- 
tribute it  to  another  scource — doesn't  seem  to  be  clear 
that  it's  God's  will  for  us  to  suffer,"  and  I  could  hear 
the  comfortable  one  settling  back  in  the  softly-cush- 
ioned chair.  "  Now,  that  never  troubles  me  at  all— 
I  always  feel  certain  our  sorest  sorrows  come  from 
God ;  was  just  saying  so  yesterday  to  a  woman  whose 
little  boy  was  drowned.     He  was  her  only  child." 

"Did  you  ever  lose  a  child?"  the  other  minister 
asked  quietly. 


-»w.''"tri  i9M^ , 


t 


n 


THE    TAINT   OF   HERESY        259 
"  Oh  no,  I've  never  had  any  trouble  of  that  kind, 
thank  God.     Ours  are  all  well  and  strong.     By  the 
way.  forest,  our  train  goes  in  a  little  over  an  hour      I 
suppose  we'll  have  dinner  before  we  go-ifs  tea  here 
I  beheve,  in  the  evening.     Doesn't  suit  me  altogether' 
either-IVe  had  a  new  kind  of  l.fe  s.nce  I  begun 
taking  dinner  in  the  evening."  as  he  rose  from  his 
chair  and  began  to  move  restlessly  about. 

I  p'-ded  away  noiselessly  like  one  in  a  dream.    My 
heart  was  leaden,  and  I  thought  it  was  all  for  love  of 
Gordon  and  dread  of  what  might  thus  befall  him.    My 
principal  thought,  as  I  remember,  was  of  his  relation 
to  his  work-and  his  position-and  his  future      Yet 
I  know  now  that  what  gave  me  the  deepest  pain  was 
a  trembling  fear  lest  those  things  should  slip  from 
.nc-^  from  him-the  things  I  reckoned  the  foun- 
dation stones  of  the  life  that  was  so  happy  now.    With- 
out  knowing  it.  ever  since  that  night  I  saw  Jennie  die 
the  secret  between  my  heart  and  Christ  had  been 
growing  more  rich  and  full.     I  esteemed  Him  the 
mccting-place  whereon  Gordon  and  I  had  found  each 
other;  and  I  feared,  though  I  could  not  have  put  it 
'"to  words,  that  distance  from  Him  would  mean  dis- 
tance from  each  other.     Perhaps  it  was  wrong;  per- 
haps these  two  passions  of  my  heart  should  have  been 
reverently  kept  separate-but  they  were  blended  and 
intertwined  in  a  union  that  was  altogether  holy. 


26o 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


I  kissed  Harold  gently  as  I  bended  over  his  bed 
and  tucked  him  in  an  hour  later ;  he  stirred  in  his 
sleep  as  my  hot  tears  fell  upon  his  face.  Then  I 
knelt  beside  him — I  remembered  how  my  mother 
used  thus  to  kneel  by  me— and  I  prayed,  pleadingly, 
in  the  new-found  way  that  had  grown  so  dear.  My 
pleading  was  all  for  Gordon,  passionate  in  its  inter- 
cession, as  though  he  were  drifting  out  to  sea,  and 
God  alone  could  bring  him  back. 

I  was  hardly  risen  from  my  knees  when  Gordon 
came  home.  He  came  at  once  to  where  I  was ;  and 
he  smiled  in  that  happy  way  nc  had,  whenever  he  saw 
me  bending  over  Harold.  It  always  seemed  to  de- 
light him  so. 

"You're  an  idolater,  Helen,  aren't  you?"  he  said. 

I  clung  to  him  in  a  very  spasm  of  fondness,  as  if  he 
were  slipping  from  me.  My  heart  cried  out  in  a  wild, 
hungry  way,  though  my  lips  were  still.  I  wanted  to 
call  him  back,  back  to  the  shelter  where  our  life's 
happiness  began. 

"  And  I  don't  blame  you,  dear,"  he  went  mu- 
singly on  as  he  looked  down  on  the  rosy  face;  "  Hfe 
is  all  preface  till  you  have  children,  isn't  it? — the  real 
volume  comes  after  that." 

"  I  could  die  for  him,"  I  said.  (This  was  with  a 
purpose.  I  was  trying,  for  the  first  time,  a  lesson  in 
thcolugy.     It  struck  me  with  a  kind  of  amusing  pain, 


i 


THE    TAIN7   OF   HERESY        .6. 

-y   poor   attempt   to  teach    Gordon-Gordon  so 
learned,  so  clever.) 

"So  could  I,"  he  murmured 

^  aU 'Tft  Z  ""'""""  ''°"-''°"  One  died  for 
us  aU  I  faltered,  coming  to  my  p„i„,  ^jj^  desperate 
d^ctness  How  the  angels  must  have  smiled  if  4 
heard  my  first  attempt  at  preaching  !  ••  It  h,,ps  1 
undentand  how  ,ove  and  suffering  must  go  tog^eU-e 
-God  can  t  help  it  any  more  than  we.  If  I  l„,  ^ 
preacher,  Gordon,  I'd  preach  that  all  Uie  time  " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me  in  amazement. '  Then 
1..S  arms  wen.  round  me  tight.  •■  Darling,"  he  said 
,^n^y.  ..you're  a  lovely  missio„a^_a!d  Tm  a 
|.ea.hen.rm  an  idolater_,ikeyou_o„,y  you're  my 

"But  you  believe  that,  don't  you,  Gordon?  "I 
;^^;-.hat-„hatIs.d,    Voudo,do„.tyou, 

^_^^-s_eyes  studied  my  face,  and  so  gravel,  for  a 

;■  Is  my  wife  growing  al.  ned  about  me  too  ?  -  he 
=M  ha  senously ;  •■  don't  be  uneasy,  darli„g_your 
h-bands  sound,  all  right.     Only  I  still  pJa  guilty 

I TJT""  '"^'  ^"  '■"  """"  ^-'^  '--»."  he 
concluded,  laughing. 

Jed^T  '"""'  ""'  ™°"  *""  °»«'    ^^«  "-y  heart 


1  l?^••^s-'^^'«H;^^:»i'-  »' 


XX 

HAROLD'S  SISTER— AND   ANOTHER 

THE  next  saddest  thing  to  having  no  c!ii!- 
dren  is  having  only  one.  Parental  sorrows 
are  to  be  classified  as  follows.  First,  anJ 
greatest,  if  you  haven't  any ;  second,  if  you  have 
only  one.  For  there  is  no  loneliness  like  the  forloni- 
ness  of  a  solitary  bairn,  to  use  a  term  of  which  GorcK  u 
was  very  fond  ;  born  to  play,  yet  having  none  to  play 
with  ;  in  need  of  chastening,  yet  denied  the  discipline 
of  other  children ;  hungry  for  fellowship,  yet  starving 
amoncf  its  seniors.  There  is  no  desert  so  waste  an  i 
weary  as  the  Sahara  that  surrounds  a  solitary  chiM. 
Life  hac  few  moments  of  surpassing  thrill  and 
wonder.  Yet  there  are  some ;  and  the  loveliest  thinj; 
about  it  all  is  this,  that  wealth  cannot  buy  them,  nor 
genius  create  them,  nor  rank  command  them.  T!ie 
impartialness  of  God  is  beautiful.  A  few  oi  the 
superfluities  do  seem  to  be  a  little  unevenly  tiis- 
tributed — but  the  great  holy  luxuries  of  life  are  as 
freely  vouchsafed  the  peasant  as  the  king.  The  glory 
and  the  beauty  of  life  itself ;  the  shelter  of  a  motlier's 
arms  and  the  deeper  shelter  of  her  heart ;  the  first 
dismantling  kiss  of  love ;  the  earliest  glimpse  of  your 

262 


i\fe*-;\r 


» 


HAROLD'S  SISTER-AND  ANOTHnR    .63 

first-born's  facc-thcse  arc  for  the  ploughman  as  well 
as  the  poet  or  the  prince. 

And  there  is  another  moment  when  life's  so  often 
tau-ny  tide  glows  with  the  very  light  of  heaven      It 
came  to  me  and  Gordon  the  day  he  led  little  Harold 
in.  to  look  upon  his  si.ter's  face.     Ah,  me !  the  tears 
start  even  yet  when  I  recall  the  sacred  scene.     I  was 
lying   there,   so    weak,  so  happy.     The  slumbering 
babe  lay  beside  me.  gurgling  now  and  then  those 
mystcnous  sounds  that  a  mothers  heart  translates  .0 
readily.    I  heard  them  coming-Harold  and  his  father 
-the    strong    tread    mingling   musically   with  the 
patter  of  the  little  feet.     Up  the  stairs  they  can.e 
hand  m  hand  along  the  hall,  little    Harold  puffin.^ 
with  excitement,  for  he  knew  something  wonderAd 
was  to  be  revealed.     I  raised  my  head  and  saw  them 
as  they  entered  the  room. 

Oh,  my  son,  my  son  !  ^vhy  did  I  not  value  more 
those  days  of  the  dear  childish  face,  as  I  saw  it  then  > 
Why  did  I  not   realize  that  the  sterner  days  were 
coming  when  those  sweet  features  were  to  be  buffeted 
by  sorrow  and  assailed  by  sin  ?     I  see  him  now.  the 
little  torn  straw  hat  above  the  neglected  locks-for 
children  will  run  to  seed  when  the  mother  is  with- 
drawn-the  plump,  ruddy  cheeks,  all  stained  from  the 
sand  pile  on  the  lawn,  the  dampness  on  the  little  fore- 
head, the  besmirched  but  becoming  iruck  ;  and  the 


264 


THE   A77IC   GUEST 


eyes,  wonderful  eyes,  so  sober,  so  inquisitive,  search- 
ing curiously  for  the  unknown,  breaking  into  shy 
laughter  as  they  fell  on  me ;  the  pudgy  hand,  quickly 
withdrawn  from  his  father's ;  then  the  little  frame,  one 
half-bare  leg  dangling  in  the  air,  lifted  high  as  Gordon 
held  him  up.  I  feel  again  the  tremble  in  my  fingers 
as  I  pulled  back  the  shawl  from  about  his  sister's 
head,  and  see  again  the  long  look  of  wonder  as  my 
son  gazed  down  upon  the  baby's  face ;  I  see  the  tiny 
throat  swallow  once  or  twice  as  his  emotion  gathered, 
and  think  of  the  vast  realm  in  his  he;*^  v  that  even  his 
father  and  I  cannot  explore.  Once  again  I  see  the 
refusing  nod — his  golden  curls  shaken  the  while 
— when  I  tell  him  to  kiss  his  baby  sister  ;  his  brood- 
ing eyes  turned  to  mine,  the  outstretched  arms,  the 
rosy  lips  coming  down  to  mine  to  be  kissed ;  and  I 
catch  the  mist  in  Gordon's  eyes,  my  own  swimming 
with  tender  joy,  even  as  they  are  overflowing  now  so 
that  I  can  hardly  see  to  write. 


The  years  flew  swiftly  by,  unmarked  by  incident 
of  note,  but  full  of  simple  joy.  1  larold  was  well  on 
his  way  in  school — clever,  like  his  father — and  his 
sister  had  1.  f^  the  days  of  babyhood  behind,  when  a 
new  influen:  came  into  our  quiet  1-  es,  a  new  Life 
into  our  little  circle. 

It  was  our  daughter's  birthday  night,  and  Gordon 


^^. 


H/IROLD'S  SISTER^AND  ANOTHER    ,65 
had  asked  some  friends  to  dinner.     For.  as  I  should 
have  said  before,  he  was  simply  crazy  about  Dorothy 
wh.ch   was  the  name  we  had  bestowed  upon  our 
daughter-it  had  been  my  mother's.     Nobody  need 
tell  me  that  a  father's  master  passion  is  anything  else 
than  his  first-born  girl.     Lots  of  men  dissemble    I 
How.  and  profess  to  hold  all  their  children  in  equal 
affection-but  it's  simply  moonshine.     If  I'm  a  spe- 
calist  in  anything,  it's  children  ;  and  I  have  satisfied 
myself  over  and  over  again  that  a  father,  nineteen 
times  out  of  twenty,  is  the  bondsman  of  his  eldest 
daughter.     Dorothy  looked  like  me;  and  I  have  a 
theory,  which  some  cleverer  brain  will  have  to  work 
out.  that  Gordon  got  her  kind  of  mixed  up  with  his 
sweetheart  feelings,  and  loved  the  me  that  was  in 
her.  and  the  her  that  was  in  me.     Anyhow,  he  was 
J'mply  crazy  about  her.  as  I  have  said-and  for  yea.^ 
1  thought  it  quite  unfair  how  he  made  Harold  play 
second  fiddle  for  Her  Majesty  the  Baby.     And  yet 
strange  though  it  sound.  Harold  was  his  very  life_but 
^ve  shall  hear  of  this  before  my  tale  is  told. 

Well,  as  I  have  reported.  Gordon  must  have  a  din- 
"'^r  party.  It  was  to  be  in  honour  of  Dorothy's 
or.R.r  1  arrival,  he  said.  So  we  invited  some  of  the 
very  nicest  peo.Je  in  the  church,  some  of  the  most 
c  ever  and  refined,  and  some  of  the  unspoiled  rich 
(I  beheve  the  grand  folks  of  St.  A  ndrew's  were  coming 


r. 


366 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


to  think  more  of  Gordon  every  day.)  And  I  got 
up  the  loveliest  little  dinner,  with  Harriet's  aid  of 
course,  for  she  was  as  proud  of  Dorothy  as  we  were 
ourselves. 

The  dinner  was  just  in  mid-career-,  and  everything 
was  going  splendidly,  when  all  of  a  sudden  Harriet 
came  to  the  dining-room  door  and  beckoned  to  nic. 
I  could  see  by  her  face  that  it  was  something  im- 
portant. 

"  There's  an  old  man  here,"  she  said  as  the  dour 
closed  behind  us,  "  and  I  thought  I  ought  to  call  you 
— he  says  he's  related." 

"  Related  !  "  I  echoed,  "  related  to  whom  ?  " 

"  To  Dr.  Laird,  ma'am,"  Harriet  answered. 

I  knew  there  must  be  some  mistake,  since  Gordon's 
relatives  were  all  across  the  sea ;  besides,  he  had 
hardly  any  that  I  knew  of,  except  his  father. 

I  hurried  out  to  the  kitchen.  As  I  entered,  I  saw 
the  figure  of  a  man  well  advanced  in  years  ;  ta!!  lie 
w:^  above  the  OiUmary,  but  evidently  stooped  with 
toil.  He  rose  from  his  chair  as  I  approached,  and 
bowed  with  a  kind  of  native  grace.  Then  he  turned 
his  face  to  mine  and  looked  me  over  with  one  of  tlie 
steadiest  pairs  of  eyes  that  ever  belonged  to  mortal. 
They  were  deeply  set,  keen  and  bright ;  high  cheek 
bones  on  either  side  ;  ruddy  complexion,  significai.t 
of  health ;  great  wav}'  folds  of  snowy  hair  fell  almost 


fKiv\'wr4'%JHr^ 


t-  lus  ^h.nUdcrs.  tlu.sc  shoulders  wrapped  in  a  k.nd 
"I  L-raysh  pla.d;  Howin^r  beard,  white  as  the  locks 
above,     iris    nose    was  prominent  and   strong,  the 

mouth  dehcate.,u„l  firmly  .et.  as  though  he  had  a 
m.nd  of  his   own   and  knew   how   to   use  it     His 
clothes  were  coarse  and  plain,  such  as  I  fancied  were 
-orn  by  the  peasants  overseas ;   homespun  stuff  I 
-u  ;  and  a  flannel  shirt,  partly  open,  disclosed  a  sun- 
burnt  throat.     He  came  forward  and  held  out  his 
hand,  which  I  noticed  was  hard  and  rough,  its  clasp 
f^rm  and  strong;  the  other  hand  held  a  long  staff- 
crooked  at  the  top  ;  a  bundle,  wrapped  in  a  kind  ot 
shawl,  lay  at  his  feet. 

■h  this  the  guidwife  o'  the  hoose?"  he  asked 

ma  strong  Scottish  voice;  "micht  ye  be  Gordon's 
Wife  ? 

I  acknowledged  that  I  was.  my  tone  indicating  that 
I  wouldn  t  mind  knowing  who  he  was. 

"  I'm  his  faither."  he  said  simply ;  -  this'Il  be  a 
graun  su.prise  to  Gordon.  Is  he  ben  the  hoose  ?  " 
•ndicating  the  dining-room  by  a  nod  of  his  head 

"^^/'  I  said-.,  ni  call  h.m  .  at/'  ,ny  eyes  fixed 
'"  '  ^'"^  °^  ^^^^'"^^        on  the  face  and  form  before 
me.    This  was  a  new  type  tome;  unfamiliar  enough 
but  decidedly  picturesque  withal. 

"I  wunner  wiU  he  ken  rac  -  the  old  man  said  a 
twmkle  in  his  eye.     -.  Ifs  mony  a  lang  day  sin'  he 


268 


THE  ATTIC  GUEST 


gaed  awa'.  Rut  he'll  mebbc  be  busy?  Is  there  somt 
o'  his  congregation  \vi'  him  ?  "  for  he  heard  the  hound 
of  voices. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "  he  can  come  all  right— we're 
just  having  dinner." 

"  Mercy  on  us  ! "  cried  the  stran^'cr, "  but  ye're  late 
wi'  yir  dinner;  ha'e  ye  no'  had  onythin'  sin'  break- 
fast ?  " 

I  smiled,  turning  towards  the  door  to  call  my  hus- 
band. But  he  had  evidently  heard  our  voices,  or 
something  else  had  prompted  him  to  come  out,  fur 
he  was  already  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen.  I  stooiJ 
silent,  and  his  eyes  turned  upon  the  stranger.  They 
rested  there,  it  seemed  to  me,  a  good  half  minute  be- 
fore a  sound  escaped  his  lips.  Then  with  a  loud  crv 
he  leaped  forward,  holding  out  his  arms.  The  hun{,'er 
on  the  older  face  was  pitiful  to  see.  Sometimes 
clasping  Gordon  tight  to  his  bosom,  sometimes  hold- 
ing him  back  a  little  to  look  upon  his  face,  the  father 
heart  seemed  unable  to  drink  its  fill. 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  father?"  Gordon 
asked,  when  speech  at  length  returned. 

"  I  cam'  frae  Scotland — where  else  ?  "  h's  father 
answered,  "  richt  frae  the  hills.  An'  I  didna'  let  ye 
ken — I  thocht  'twad  be  a  bonnie  surprise  to  ye.  I 
landed  at  Montreal  last  nicht,  an'  then  I  cam"  richt 
on.     Whaur's  the  bairns  ?  " 


.•ia^m^3-J3iriA^  ■yMM. 


•■  ri,c»c  iasidc-  >.„!  Gordo,,.  ••  j„,.|,  ,,,  „,,„ 
...  -  n,.„u.c."  rhcn  followed  a  fc>,  „>.„„,„  „f  ,„,,, 
4u=»t,on,„«  and  a„,w.,i,.g,  ■■  I!„,  con.e  „„  i„  „„, 
"-    "ow,     Gordon    ,,jj,„|^   ^,„^  .    .       _^ ,  .  ^ 

fr™"'"'""'''' ■■"■-•«'"  ."""J- you 

u  my  fric.ds—conic,  Helen." 
'   =.l.l'lK.d   behind  .„e   older   man;   and   ,|,c„    i„ 

..O.an  Me,  Gordon  i„d,nB,>ve  returned  ,o  on/:;: 
>  -^.'  K-  ...  A  fine  ,,roce,.ion.  too,  we  „,u.,  have 
".-.  Oordon  m  h,.  >po.les.  eveu.ng  dress.  I  in  ,„„ 

...   -  -l.aK,„g  a.  he  walKe-l,  hi»  eagle  eye  fi.x,.,g 
.-If  half  defiantly  and  half  .,,,  ...„,„g,y         „  „f 

"|.turned  faces,  stood  Go,....,',  ....      „\,  " 

,  1      ,n  nis  home- 

spun,  the  Scotch  shawl  o*  i  -,  „,-  !. 
J>uge  safety.pin  that  hd,.  .  ..'....'. 
light. 

Gordon   introduced   him    v.   ,.  v, 

father,"  he  said  to  each,  and  no 
m       J.  '      "  "'^  ^-  -  -I'uiu  lau  to  see 

c  rad.ance  on  his   face.     Then   the  old  man  was 

^^^^^^^^y^  Gordon  sri,ln,^,o  arrears  oi,-.nncr 
^^cre  brought  quickly  in,  and  in  a  moment  our  ne,. 
v.s.tor  was  the  centre  of  attraction.     Hefbre  taking 
-^  -at  he  stooped  and   kissed  both  the  children 
T^"^  ;;    them    earnestly,    then    at   their    father 
^'•t-  iadd.e-.s  like  yir  mither,  Gordon."  he  said  his 

voice    trembling    a    little-    "  ave    h-  ''^' ^"^ 

b    «*    iiiue,      aye,  hes   got  Elsie's 


hpulders,  the 
■'■■  the  brilliant 

'  '  si  :    "My 
I'uid  fail  to  see 


■>■■>. M?*'C 


r^n 


270 


rHE   ATTIC   GUEST 


mouth,"  wherewith  he  kissed  him  again,  the  hd 
looking  up  in  wonder.  "  The  wee  lassie  favours 
yirsel',  Mrs.  Laird." 

"  My  name's  Helen,"  I  said  quietly. 

The  strong  face  glowed  with  pleasure ;  and  I 
could  see  what  joy  my  amendment  had  given  Gor- 
don. "  The  wee  girl  has  yir  ain  bonnie  face,  Helen, " 
he  corrected,  hesitating  a  little  before  he  spoke  my 
name. 

It's  wonderful  what  homin.-^  instincts  children 
have  !  For  a  few  minutes  later  little  Dorothy,  usu- 
ally so  shy,  slipped  out  of  her  chair  and  stole  over 
beside  her  grandfather,  looking  wistfully  up  into  l.is 
face.  He  took  her  on  his  knee,  stroking  her  head 
with  beautiful  tenderness. 

His  plate  of  soup  was  now  before  him,  but  still 
Grandfather  Laird  did  not  begin.  Finally,  in  some 
perplexity,  he  turned  to  Gordon.  "  I'll  tak'  a  wee 
drappie  speerits,  Gordon,  if  you  please  ;  I  maistly 
tak's  juist  wnat  ye'd  notice  afore  supper— forbye,  I'm 
tired." 

Gordon  flushed,  hesitating.  "  We  haven't  such  a 
thing  about  the  house,  father — we  really  never  keep 
it,"  he  began  in  some  embarrassment.  "  It  isn't 
much  of  a  custom  out  here,  father." 

The  old  man  sighed  as  he  took  up  the  snow-whit- 
napkin  beside  his  plate,  pushing  it  a  little  farther 


HAROLDS  SISTER- ^XD  ANOTHER  271 
away  le.t  it  should  get  .oiled.  "  I'm  doutin'  this 
country's  no' juist  what  it'^  thocht  to  be.  The  fir:it 
mo.i  I  clappit  ni)-  eye  on  in  Montreal,  he  was  a  beg- 
„'ar.  vv.'  a  cup-an'  I  thocht  everybody  had  p^M.ry 
.illcr  in  Canad).  A.,'  noo  ;t  .secn.s  yc  ha'cna'  a 
drappic  aboot  tlic  lioo.e.  Weel.  it's  nae  matter  ;  I 
c.ia  dae  uaatia'  it.  But  Til  „o'  beg.a  ui  ou  the 
bici.in'."  he  added  gravely.  "  Wull  yc  say  it,  Gor- 
don ?  "  nodding  to  his  reverend  son. 

"  No,  lather-you  say  it  yoursellV  replied  Gordon, 
bowing  his  head,  in  which  he  was  speedily  followed 
by  all  of  us. 

Then  the  old  man,  his  hands  outstretched,  be^an  a 
piayer  of  prodigious  length.  Adoration.  confeLon 
i:ianksg.ving  followed  in  regular  order,  the  whole 
enriched  with  many  a  Scriptural  quotation.  I  could 
nut  see  the  faces  of  our  guests,  but  I  knew  right  well 
how  mystified  they  must  be. 

A  little  shy  at  first,  dispensing  diffident  glances 
around  the  company  as  they  tried  to  engage  him  in 
conversation,  the  patriarch  soon  began  to  feel  with 
what  cordiality  we  all  regarded  him.  Wherewith  lie 
grew  more  and  more  communicative,  this  being  evi- 
dently the  occasion  of  his  life  ;  besides,  and  naturally 
enough,  his  heart  was  full  to  overflowing. 

"  Its  hard  to  tak'  it  in.  laddie."  he  said  once  or 
twice,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  turning 


kruS^-Ka^HX  »^rT=t^-.<%^ 


2^2 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


full  round  to  gaze  at  Gordon  ;  "  to  think  we're  baith 
in  Ameriky,  and  me  in  yir  ain  huose — an'  you  sittin' 
wi'  yin  o'  thae  claw-hammer  jackets  on  ye,  like  the 
gentry  wear.  It  seems  but  the  ither  day  ye  were  a 
wee  bare-leggit  laddie,  iiclpin'  yir  faither  mind  the 
sheep.  Ye  was  as  gleg  as  a  collie  dog.  I  didna' 
think  then,  laddie,  ye'd  ever  wag  yir  heid  in  a  pul- 
Jilt — but  the  ways  o'  Providence  is  wunnerfu',"  as 
the  honest  eyes  shone  with  pride  and  joy. 

I  saw  one  of  our  minor  guests  titter  a  little  at  this. 
She  looked  at  Gordon  rather  as  if  she  were  sorry  for 
him  ;  fancied,  no  doubt,  that  he  would  be  in  sore 
straits  of  embarrassment  to  have  his  peasant  father 
thus  presented.  But  I  never  was  prouder  of  my 
husband  than  1  was  that  night.  I  actually  felt  my 
eyes  grow  dim  mor_  than  once  as  I  remarked  the 
deference  with  which  Gordon  treated  his  father,  so 
different  though  he  was  from  what  anybody  would 
have  expected.  He  seemed  to  delight  to  honour 
him  ;  and  while  I  suppose  it  was  only  natural  for  him 
to  notice  how  far  from  cultured  he  was — reck  niiig 
from  our  standards — yet  I  know  he  reverenced  him 
in  his  inmost  heart  for  the  unaffected  goodness  that 
none  could  fail  to  recognize. 

Somebody,  taking  advantage  of  a  momentary 
pause,  asked  the  old  man  about  his  voyage. 

"  Oh,"  he  began  enthusia-stically,  and  I  knew  by 


.  .  '>?«ffiff  Fs'j-K  ''iia«i&':<iWiri  • 


HAROLDS  SISTER-Am  ANOTHER    .7, 
hi»  .  t.„e  that  he  was  off; ..  „,,,  ,,,  ,,,^  ^ 

at:.c,..hcr     Ica,„.,t,.es.o„dcabi„,„a'-edot:: 
™"  °"  """•°'"  ^  P-'-'=  of  confusion.  ••  f„r  it  d  d„ 

costas„,uckIeas.hei,her„.ay;butt.,ere„.a7- 
Uraun'  lot  o'  passe„g.„.     \\v  didn  ,■  r,-  ■ 

_  >■    '■     "  "^  "'dnj  ha  e  oivcr  muckic 

"•  r''  "'^^  ''~'-''"'  'hey  «,ed  us  porridge  „,o„,  an' 
mcht,  sac  we  was  fine.    An'  there  vvi,  ,L 
„,j.  .„  ..  ,  _  "'""=  "'T-'  tiva  ministers 

"■  u^.   he  went  on.  warming  to  his  theme,.,  an' they 
preach,.  ..„  „3  on  the  Sabbath  day.     It's  w.nn."    ' 
.>.c  difference   there   is  in   „,„;,,„,     ,,.,  o'  th-i, 

l-ac.i,.nthe„,or„i„'.a„'the.-.i.,.at„icht;the 
)"..    the   niornin'  was   a   piiir   feckless  body. 

r~r' ^''''''""'^"^•^"' ''"*--■■ 'he  -iii- 

™     tislastcom,,,goi,tcon.e„,pt.o,,siy;..hesa,., 

"■''  """fi^  '''"'"'  "^  "=«er  God-did  ,.e  ever  hear 

:;:;;;■;"•'  '\"' '- -<' ".ey .  tang,;. . ::: 

I.  Al  „  chty_a„'  thein  as  iovcd  .he„,  wud  be  saved  • 

;.  *'  '"■"  '"°"-"''a  preachi.  .;„  ,s  a.  „ich,_,« 
^J    he  roo.  o'  the  matter  in  him.  I  tel  ye.     He 

e  h  d    ,„j  ^^„,,^,^^ ..  ^^  ^^^^^__ 

''■"■;  ...to  a  pocket  for  the  same.    ..  Here's  hispii,,,  • 

■-'    naebody  kens    God    wha    does„a'    ken       e' 

''ctriae.,,.  second,  .h,,cwhadoesi,a' ken  -vill  be los.'. 

vT.rT  f  "'■'"•'  ^°'^™"'^  "  "'  ™'"^  »'  'he- 
•""«'•'"""  "ha's  los.  is  los.  .0  a' eternity 


274 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


Oh,  it  was  a  graun'  discoorse,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  It  was 
unco'  refreshin',  after  the  baby  broth  we  got  i'  the 
mornin'.  I  pit  tuppence  in  the  plate — but  I  didiia' 
gie  a  farthin'  in  the  mornin'.  Are  thae  folk  a'  Trc^ 
byterians,  Gordon  ?  "  he  concluded  by  enquiring,  nod- 
ding towards  the  assembled  visitors. 

"  Mostly  all,  father,"  was  Gordon's  answer  ;  "  in 
fact,  I  believe  they  all  are." 

"  Div  ye  teach  them  the  Catechism,  when  yc're 
visitin'  ?  "  the  old  man  pursued. 

"  Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid,"  answered  Gordon, 
laughing ;  "  you  won't  find  things  just  the  same  here 
father,  as  they  are  in  old  Scotland — not  in  that  line, 

at  least." 

The  old  man's  face  clouded.  "  Thae  ihin-s 
shouldna'  change,"  he  said  solemnly ;  "  sin  dccsna* 
change— andthe  truth  o'  God's  aye  the  same,  mj-  son," 
as  he  looked  down  at  the  table.  "  I'm  dootin'  tluy're 
ower  anxious  aboot  makin'  money.  They  tell  me 
maist  everybody's  rich  in  Canady — but  I  saw  ^  va 
beggars  in  Montreal,"  he  recalled  a  little  ruefully. 
Then  suddenly : 

•'  I  ha'e  a  wee  pickle  siller  wi'  me  mysel',  Gordon," 
the  Scotch  instinct  showing  in  his  voice ;  "  only  it  s 
nae  sac  little !  " 

At  this  juncture  my  husband  made  heroic  efforts  to 
change  the  subject ;  but  the  old  Scotchman  was  as 


HAROLD'S  SIS7ER-AND  ANOTHER   .7, 
intense  about  this  as  about  graver  matters     •<  Aye  I 
ha'e  upwards  o'  a  hunnerd  pounds,"  he  said  impres's- 
ively,  glancing  shyly  at  the  company  ; ..  .-e  mind  y,r 
muher  s  Aunt  Kirsty  ?-_or  mebbe  ye  never  saw  her  ? 
U  eel  ony way.  she  died.     An'  she  was  lang  aboot  it. 
tell  ye.  for  she  was  ninety-four.     Sae  it  was  better 
for  her  to  gang-better  for  us  baith_an'  she  willed 
her  wee  bit  belongings  tae  me-an'  I  sold  them  afore 
I  left.     An-  yir  faither  was  the  prood  mun  at  the 
funeral.  Gordon-I  was  the  chief  n.ourner."  he  ex- 
plained impressively  ;  -.  I  ,vas  the  only  yin  there  that 
was  related  to  the  corpse-and   I  walked  ahint  the 
bearers  till  the  graveyard.     A'  the  folk  said  I  carried 
my-l-  like   a   minister;  the  undertaker,  he  was  an 
awfu  solemn  mon-but  I  was  solemner  nor  him ;  an"  I 
kenned  a'  the  time,  mind  ye.  that  I  was  the  heir. 
That  s  hoo  I  got  the  siller  to  pay  my  way  to  Canady. 
^"t  I  hae  a  hunnerd  pounds  left.  Gordon-an'  I'm 
gaem'  to  invest  it.  after  I  look  aboot  a  wee  bit      In- 
v-tn.ents   is    awfu'   profitable  here,   they   tell   me. 
It  11  mak    a  cozy  pickle  o'  siller  for  me,  wull  it  no' 
b  rdon?" 

"  Don't  count  too  much  on  u,  father,"  Gordon 
answered  ;  "  money  isn't  just  as  universal  here  as  you 
old-country  people  think."  But  the  old  man  seemed 
reluctant  to  be  convinced  of  this. 

^V  little  later  in  the  evening  we  had  some  music. 


276 


7 HE   A-mC   GUEST 


Most  of  the  soiifjs,  I  tear,  were  of  thj  rather  sesthetic 
type ;  and  I  fancied  they  appealed  but  little  to  our 
venerable  friend.  He  sat  quietly  in  a  corner  of  the 
parlour,  as  if  lost  in  diought.  Ever/  -low  and  then 
his  eyes  would  rove  to  Gordon's  face,  glowing  with 
pride  and  affection.  As  for  me,  I  knew  not  \\hc;i  I 
had  been  so  fascinated,  I  simply  sat  and  watched 
him,  hardly  knowing  just  what  it  was  that  held  nicsu. 
Partly  the  picturesqueness  of  this  rugged  type,  I  sup 
pose,  and  partly  a  dawning  recognition  ol  the  ster- 
ling worth  behind  the  stern  exterior  ;  genuineness  was 
written  all  over  him.  Then  I  think  I  was  beginning 
to  love  him  for  my  husband's  sake — I  remember  how 
the  thought  flashed  on  me  that  I  never  would  have 
had  Gordon  but  for  him. 

Suddenly,  availing  himself  of  a  temporary  lull,  the 
old  man  cleared  his  throat :  "  I'll  gie  ye  a  sang 
mysel',"  he  offered ;  "  nane  o'  yir  highfalutin 
kind — but  a  guid  auld  yin  o'  Bobbie  Burns.  It 
minds  me  o'  yir  mither,  Gordon,"  as  he  cleared  his 
throat  again  with  mighty  din,  preparatory  to  per- 
formance. 

"  I'll  try  and  play  for  you  if  you  tell  me  what  it  is, 
Mr.  Laird,"  volunteered  one  of  the  ladies,  moving 
towards  the  piano.  I  had  seen  grandfather  eyeing  her 
askance  a  little  while  before  ;  indeed,  I  myself  tliou;j;hl 
her  evening   dress    was    rather  overdone  about  the 


HAROLD'S  SISTER-AND  ANOTHER   277 

shoulders— underdone,  perhaps,  would   be  a  better 
word. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  old  man,  with  a  disdainful 
wave  of  his  hand,  •<  yon  clatter  wud  only  throw  me 
aff  the  tune.  I'll  sing  the  way  the  Almichty  meant/' 
with  which  he  broke  into  a  strong,  clear  baritone  that 
would  really  have  commanded  attention  in  any  com- 
pany. More  inspiring  still,  the  whole  soul  of  the  man 
seemed  to  fuse  with  the  touching  words : 

"  My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream  ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream." 

The  applause  that  greeted  the  performance  seemed  to 
please  the  old  man  well.  From  many  standpoints 
this  was  evidently  the  night  of  his  life,  and  soon  his 
enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds.  Not  more  than  half 
an  hour  aft  r,  this  first  ovation  still  lingering  grate- 
fully in  the  performer's  mind,  one  or  two  of  the 
guests  suggested  that  he  favour  us  with  another 
Scotch  song,  a  proposal  that  soon  grew  into  a  general 
demand. 

"  I  canna',"  declined  the  old  man, "  I  canna'  juist  the 
noo.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  dae  wi'  ye.  I'll  gie  ye 
the  Hielan'  fling—that's  fair  graun',  an'  ye'll  no'  hae 
It  in  Canady.  Gordon,  gie  me  the  bootjack,  like  a 
guid  laddie— my  shoon's  ower  heavy  for  dancin'— 
they're  the  lang-toppit  kind." 


378 


7 HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


li 


"  We've  nothing  of  the  sort,  father,"  Gordun  ex- 
plained reluctantly. 

'•  Ah,  weel,"  he  answered  cheerfully,  "  yc'l! 
dac  fine  yirsel'.  Staun'  aroon'  wi"  yir  back  ti!i 
me — and  let  yon  mon  pit  his  back  til!  ye,"  in  !i- 
catinj;  an  immaculate  professor  of  burly  fji  ui , 
who,  apprehending,  presented  himself  for  Gunl  n's 
grasp,  the  latter  in  turn  taking'  the  already  ex- 
tended foot  between  his  legs  and  gripping  the  boot 
tightly  with  his  hands.  Gordon's  sire  then  liitcJ 
up  the  free  foot  upon  his  son,  pushing  mightil)-, 
and  making  a  noise  the  while  such  as  I  have  heard  nic:! 
employ  when  raising  telegraph  poles.  A  moment 
later  Gordon  and  the  professor  were  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor,  a  long  boot  with  a  red  top  between  them.  The 
second  similarly  removed,  the  old  man  moved  sol- 
emnly out  to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  called  for  a 
couple  of  walking  sticks,  laid  them  crosswise ;  tlicn 
broke  into  the  most  fantastic  dance,  leaping  to  and 
fro  above  the  imaginary  swords,  sometimes  crouchinj; 
low,sometmies  springing  high  in  air,  sometimes  whirl- 
ing like  a  Dervish  with  outflowing  arms,  the  whule 
enriched  by  an  occasional  savage  yell  that  was  first  the 
terror,  afterwaids  the  delight,  of  one  or  two  of  the 
ladies.  But  all  were  entranced,  and  none  more  ao 
than  the  performer  himself. 

Shortly    after   the   excitement   had   subsioed   the 


HAROLDS  SISTER-AND  ANOTHER  2-j<) 
guests  began  to  make  their  farewells,  liut  this  struck 
the  vnierableScotchman  as  quite  irre-ular.  "Hoots!" 
he  cried,  when  one  or  two  had  proffered  me  their 
liands.  "ye  canna'  gang  till  weVe  had  worship;  Gor- 
don wadna-  like  it.  Wha  ever  heard  tell  o'  ireens 
leavin-  the  manse  wi  oot  a  word  o'  pra)er?  Gordon, 
tak'  the  Huik  " ;  and  his  son.  an  amased  smile  playing 
about  his  lips,  proceeded  promptly  to  do  as  he  was 
told. 

"  Are  ye  no'  gaein'  to  sing  ? "  the  old  man  suddenly 
broke  out,  for  Gordon  was  just  starting  tt)  read. 

"  We  don't  usually,  father;  it's  not  customar>-  here," 
uas  the  answer. 

"  It's  a  sair  custom."  rejoined  his  father,  "  neg- 
lectin'  to  sing  the  praise  o'  A  Imichty  God.  But,  ony- 
way,  we'll  ha'e  a  psalm— 111  raise  the  tune  mysel'." 
which  purpose  he  carried  into  effect  as  soon  as  a  se- 
lection had  been  made.  "  We'll  tak'  the  eighty- 
ninth,"  he  said  presently ;  and  as  he  launched  the 
mighty  strain  f  recognized  the  very  words  that  had 
given  me  my  f^rst  introduction  to  the  p;  .tuii;  tii;.!  ^ar- 
gone  night  in  uncle's  house : 

"Oh,  greatly  blessed  the  people  ?.re 
The  joyful  sound  that  know," 

he  began,  singing  onward  to  the  end.    Gordon  ana  ! 
alone  could  join  with  him,  but  oi  r  leader  seemed  nc^i 


a8o 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


to  care.  His  whole  heart  and  mind  were  absorbed 
in  the  great  sorig  of  his  fatherland,  and  lie  sang  it  as 
only  an  exile  can.  Face  and  voice  and  soul  all  seemcJ 
to  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  the  noble  verbt  which 
brought  the  psalm  to  an  end.  lie  looked  like  one  of 
the  old  battling  Covenanters  themselves,  his  eyes 
closed,  his  head  thrown  back,  one  hand  gently  kccp- 
i'lg  Umc  as  he  rolled  out  the  crowning  stanza: 


h-: 


I 


' '  For  God  is  our  defense  and  He 
To  us  doth  safety  bring  ; 
The  Holy  One  of  Israel 
Is  our  Almighty  King." 

Silence  fell.  Then  Gordon  moved  over  under  the 
light  and  began  to  read  the  Scriptures  The  pa  age 
he  chose  was  that  sublime  chapter  fr  .n  Isaiah  ;  and 
there  were  few  could  interpret  through  the  voice  as 
Gordon  could.  The  old  man  sat,  his  eyes  shaded  by 
his  hand,  listening  reverent!)'.  By  and  by  Gordon 
came  to  the  words  :  •'  My  servant  shall  deal  pnidctitly 
.  .  .  he  shall  be  exalted  and  extolled  .  .  . 
his  visage  was  so  marred  more  than  any  man  and 
his  form  more  than  the  sons  of  men." 

"  Expound  yon,"  came  as  a  sudden  interruption. 

Gordon  looked  up  from  the  book.  "  What's  that, 
father  ?     Do  what  ?  " 

"  1'  xpound  the  Wortl,"  his  father  repeated  solemnly ; 


H/IROLD'S  SlS7[:R-.,4Nn  AN07HER    a8, 

"  the  njinister  should  aye  cxp.nnid  ihc  pa  > .ajjc.     Tell 
the  folk  wha  the  prophet  mean,,." 

Gordon  turned  a  puzzled  look  on  tlie  page. 

"Von  aboot  the  servant."  his  father  explained; 
•'  tlic Suffering  Servant,  ye  ken-IIim  whas  face  uas 
marred  wi'  cruel  men.  Vc  ken  wha  the  prophet's 
referrin'  to,  my  son  ?  " 

Gordon  understood.  I  see  what  you  mean."  he 
answered  slowly;  -  but  I  don't  know  that  I'm  quite 
clear  about  that  myself.  The  best  scholarship  seems 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  ^ " 

But  the  old  man  was  all  on  fire  now.  "  I  dinna* 
ken  naethin-  aboot  yir  scholars,"  he  broke  in  ve- 
hemently. ..  an-  I  dinna-  care.  But  yon  bit  refers  to 
the  Man  o'  Sorrows_ye  ken  that  fine,  div  ye  no'?— 
it's  Christ  the  prophet  means— an'  Him  sufTerin'  for 
MH.  Gordon,  expound  the  Word."  and  there  was  a 
stern  grandeur  about  the  pose  and  the  voice  of  this 
champion  of  the  truth  that  would  luve  dune  credit 
to  the  ancient  prophet  himself. 

"  I  cannot,"   said   Gordon,  his    lips    quite    white ; 

"not  as  you  understand  it.  father— it  i^n't  clear  to 
•Tie." 

^  "Then  close  the  Buik,"  said  the  old  man  sternly; 
"  '<■  it's  no'  the  savo-ir  of  life  unto  life,  it'll  be  the 
savour  o'  death  unto  death." 
And    Gordon   did.     "  You'll  lead   us   in    prayer, 


-^-  ■•;  ;f  i 


I.'?*';. 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


I.I 


2.8 

■  4.0 


2.5 


2.2 
2.0 

1.8 


A  APPLIED  IIVMGE     Inc 

^rv  '65J   EosI    Mam    Street 

S'^S  Roctiester,    Ne«   Vork         14609       USA 

'-as  (716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^^  (716)    288  -  5989  -  Fax 


4 


M 


282 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


father,"  he  said,  his  voice  so  low  we  could  hardk 
hear. 

His  father  seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment,  looking 
timidly  around  upon  the  strangers.  Then  he  sIo\vly 
sank  on  his  knees  beside  the  chair,  one  hand  resting 
on  Dorothy's  golden  cuns  ;  and  in  a  moment  the 
Presence  seemed  about  us.  It  was  a  wonderful 
prayer,  and  came  as  if  out-breathed  beneath  the  very 
shadow  of  the  Cross. 

Our  guests  took  their  leave  in  silence.  After  the 
children  were  tucked  away  I  waited  long  up-stairs  for 
Gordon  ;  but  I  fell  asleep  at  last,  the  sound  of  earnest 
voices  still  floating  upward  from  the  study.  I  knew 
it  was  a  collision  of  the  old  school  and  the  new— and 
I  prayed  on  the  father's  side. 


1 

I4                           i 

■i 

¥»K^ 


4R^K^  _        ^t^V^^^H 


XXI 
"LOIRE'S  OLD  SIVEET  SONG" 

THERE  could    be    but    one    end    to  this. 
Whether  Gordon  was  right  or  wrong,  he 
was  not  at  o.:e  with  the  standards  of  his 
church.     I  really  believe,   although  I   shrink   from 
saying  ,t,  that  his  idea  of  saving  men  came  more  and 
more  to  be   confused   with  the  process  of  simply 
/^e/pn^  them.    This  sprang  partly,  of  course,  from 
h.s  nobility  of  nature,   from   his  large  and   loving 
heart-but  it  was  wrong.     Gordon.  I  think,  believed 
m  relieving  men,  then  reforming  them,  both  of  which 
were  to  spell  regeneration.     And  then,  besides  he 
seemed  to  have  adopted  some  theory  about  law.  Ind 
the  laws  of  nature-he  knew  more  about  evolution 
than  any  other  man  since  Darwin-that  had  turned 
the  once  sweet  luxury  of  prayer,  real  prayer  into 
nothing  more  than  a  sort  of  religious  exercise     I 
don't  believe  he  thought  prayers  that  actually  asked 
for  things  were  of  any  use  at  all. 

I  suppose,  too,  although  I  never  could  find  out 
'-uch  about  this,  that  Gordon  didn't  just  regard  the 
Scriptures  in  the  same  way  his  brother  ministers  did ; 


284 


THE   A77IC   GUEST 


M 


h    ) 


yet  I  knew  he  reverenced  the  Bible  and  simply  lived 
among  its  teachings. 

But  there  could,  as  I  have  said,  be  only  one  end  lo 
all  of  this — so  far,  I  mean,  as  Gordon's  relation  to  St. 
Andrew's  was  concerned.  I  felt  from  the  beginning 
that  it  would  be  but  a  matter  of  time  till  he  must 
forsake  the  pulpit  he  loved  so  well.  There  were  two 
influences  that  contributed  powerfully  to  this  :  the 
one  was  Gordon's  honour — the  other,  Gordon's  father. 
My  husband  had  a  fastidious  conscience — and  a  faith- 
ful sire. 

Grandfather  had  been  with  us  long — I  cannot  say 
exactly  how  long — before  matters  actually  came  to  a 
crisis.  But  I  think  he  felt  from  the  beginning,  with 
the  keen  instinct  of  his  kind,  that  Gordon's  official 
ministry  was  at  an  end.  One  night,  sitting  in  an  ad- 
joining room,  I  overheard  the  most  of  a  long  con- 
versation between  the  father  and  the  son.  The  bur- 
den of  it  did  not  greatly  surprise  me ;  grandfather 
had  gi^en  me  his  mind  on  the  matter  before,  or  im- 
plied it  anyhow,  and  more  than  once.  But  I  knew 
that  night  that  the  crisis  was       :and. 

"  Ye  canna'  dae  onythin'  else,"  the  old  man  re- 
peated once  or  twice ;  "  when  a  minister  gi'es  up  the 
fundamentals,  it's  no'  richt  for  him  to  keep  his  kirk. 
A  preacher  wi'oot  a  gospel ! — he's  a  sair  objec',"  the 
Scotch  voice  concluded  pitifully. 


wmm.^.. 


"LOIRE'S   OLD   SIVEET  SONG'    .8, 

I  could  catch  the  tone  of  almost  bitter  remonstrance 

m  Gordon's  answer.    «  Without  a  gospel,  father  •- 

he  cried  reproachfully  ;<•  surely  you  don't  accuse  me 

of  that— surely  you're  going  too  far." 

'•  Ye  dinna'  believe  Christ  died  for  sinners,"  the 
older  man  said  sternly ; "  an'  ony  minister  wha  doesna' 
believe  that-he's  vvi'oot  a  gospel,  my  son." 

"  You  don't  understand  me,  father,"  Gordon  re- 
monstrated earnestly;  ..you  state  the  thing  too 
severely-perhaps  I  don't  just  believe  it  in  the  way 
you  do,  but ." 

"  There's  only  the  yin  way  to  believe  yon."  inter- 
rupted his  father;  "you  an'  me's  the  same  kind  o' 
sinners,  my  son-an'  we  need  the  same  kind  o'  a 
Saviour.  Forbye,  ye  think  we're  a'  divine,  I'm 
dootin';  that's  what  they  say  aboot  ye,  onyway_an' 
I  m  thinkin'  I've  gathered  it  from  yir  sermons  mair 
nor  once." 

"Not  exactly,  father,"  I  heard  Gordon  answer. 
"  What  I  do  teach  is,  that  every  man  has  the  divine 
withm  him ;  and  if  we  but  appeal " 

"  I  dinna'  ken  ^vhat  ye've  got  inside  o'  ye,"  broke 
•n  the  champion  of  truth,  "  but  I'm  sick  an'  tired 
0  all  inside  o'  ;;/.-naethin'  but  sin  an'  misery- 
"aethin'  but  filthy  rags,"  he  added,  careless  of  the 
unseemly  metaphor.  "  An'  there's  mair-ye  dinna' 
believe  there's  ony  use  in  prayer;  nae  guid  ava',  for- 


286 


7HE   AT7IC   GUEST 


11 


t  r 


bye  juist  ha'ein'  fellowship  \vi'  God.  An'  ye  dinna' 
believe  there's  ony  use  in  pray  in'  for  the  thinj,'s  we 
want — ye  dinna'  think  it  maks  ony  difference  ;  ) x'lt: 
feart  o'  the  laws  of  natur' — ye  think  God's  a  scr\  ant 
in  His  ain  hoose,  like  as  if  He  couldna'  dae  onytlun' 
He  wants  to  dae." 

"  But  I  do  believe  in  prayer,  father — of  course  I 
do.  Perhaps  I  don't  just  believe  that  it  alters  c  r 
affects  the  outward  course  of  things ;  but  at  the  same 
time " 

"  Then  ye  maun  settle  it  wi*  the  Word  of  God, " 
the  old  man  answered  solemnly ;  "  it  aye  bids  us  to 
ask  for  what  we  want;  an'  it  tells  us  God's  oor 
Heavenly  Faither— an'  what  for  wud  He  no"  dae 
things  for  us,  Him,  wi'  all  power  in  His  hands.  Oh, 
my  son,  my  son,  ye'll  change  yir  mind  some  day, 
I'm  dootin',  when  yir  sair  heart's  callin'  oot  for  the 
love  o'  the  livin'  God." 

And  thus  the  sorrowful  dialogue  made  its  way. 

I  think  it  was  the  very  next  day  Gordon  told  me 
he  had  resigned  St.  Andrew's.  He  told  me  his 
reason,  too ;  which  I  knew  already.  My  heart  leaped 
towards  the  children,  I  remember,  but  I  scarce  knew 
why;  tenderly,  passionately,  pityingly,  my  heart 
went  out  to  my  children,  to  whom  I  knew  it  would 
mean  the  most. 
"  Where  will  we  go  to  live  ?  "  was  one  of  the  first 


W^l: 


-LOi^E'S  OLD  Sl^EET  SONG"  .87 
questions  I  asked.  For  I  did  not  seek.  then,  to  cum 
U ordon  from  his  purpose.  I  knew  too  well  ],ow  im- 
po-,s.bIe  that  would  be  ;  besides.  I  felt  no  honourable 
course  was  open  to  him  but  the  one  he  had  already 
chosen. 

Gordons  face  was  very  grave  as  he  began  to  tell 
me  of  the  only  opening  he  saw  before  him 

"  But  you'll  get  another  call,  Gordon-and  another 
church,  won't  you  ?"  I  asked,  dimly  fearing. 

"  Xo.  no  other  call-and  no  other  church."  he  an- 
swered firmly  ;  "  at  least,  no  regular  church.  Helen  ■  " 
-'th  which  he  explained  to  me  how  the  very  reasons 
that  prompted  him  to  renounce  St.  Andrew's  must 
hold  him  back  from  any  similar  position.     '•  But  T'l 
have  a  field  of  work  just  the  same-of  usefulness', 
too.  please  God."  he  added,  in  the  lowest  voice     "  I 
can  labour  there  without  being  responsible  to  any 
one  but  Him." 

Then  he  told  me  aM  about  the  plan  he  had  in  view. 
He  would  take  ti.e  little  mission  in  Swan  Hollow  • 
this  was  the  sunken  part  of  the  city  in  whici,  he  had 
^0  long  carried  on  the  work  that  had  received  so 
rnuch  of  his  care  and  love-the  same  to  which  Jennie 
McM.llan  had  belonged,  to  whom  I  owed  the  happi- 
ness of  all  the  years  bet^veen. 

^"  We've  got  a  little  church  there,"  he  said,  a  note 
"'  pnde  mingling  with  the  sadness  of  his  voice.  "  and 


■^r  ML.^- 


288 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


it  doesn't  belong  to  anybody  but  ourselves.  The 
people  built  it — and  I  helped  them.  It's  just  pos- 
sible the  Presbytery  may  try  to  interfere  with  me— 
but  I  don't  think  so.  That's  where  I'm  going  lo 
preach  now,  Helen ;  and  I'll  preach  the  truth  as  1  be- 
lieve it." 

"  But,  Gordon,"  I  remonstrated,  "  won't  it  be  the 
same  truth  that  you've  preached  in  St.  Andrew's  ? " 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  And  his  face 
was  clouded  when  his  words  came  at  length.  "  It 
won't  be  the  same  as  St.  Andrew's  expects  to  hear— 
and  wants  to  hear,"  he  said ;  "  they  demand  the  old 
orthodox  truths  in  the  old  orthodox  way — and  then 
they're  through  with  them,"  he  added  a  little  bit- 
terly ;  "  till  the  next  Sunday,  at  least." 

"  But  aren't  those  the  same  ..  '  -our  father  be- 
lieves ?  "  I  pressed,  feeling  the  "; .     ,   ,  of  my  reply. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  but  nv  '  .  oelieves  them 
in  his  inmost  heart— and  he  lives  them." 

"  And  don't  you  believe  them  in  your  inmost 
heart,  Gordon  ?  "  I  cried  eagerly — "  the  way  your 
father  does  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered  gravely,  after  a  long  pause,  his 
face  very  white ;  "  no,  I  don't  believe  them  as  my 
father  does." 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  pleaded  with  sudden  entreaty, 
*■  come  back — come  back,  my  darling.     You're  drift- 


■■LOI^ES  OLD  SWEEl  SONG-  ^ 
ing;  oh,  Gordon.  youVe  drifting  away  from  God- 
and  me,    for  my  soul's  loneliness  was  about  mc  like 

a  mist. 

•■  Don',/'  he  said  huskily,  holding  out  his  arms  to 
me,    for  God  s  sake  don't  make  ..  any  harder  for  me 
No  man  can  drift  far  if  he  tries  to  do  good  in  his 
•Masters  name-and  I  intend,  I  honestly  purpose,  to 
B.ve  my  hfe  to  those  poor  people  at  the  mission     If 
any  man  will  do   His  will,  we're  told,  he  shall  know 
the  doetnne.    I'm  going  to  try  to  do  His  will,  Helen 
-and  I  want  you  close  beside  me,  together,  --oing 
our  l,fe.work  hand  in  hand.     Then  we  can't  be  any 
th-ng  but  happy,  my  darling,"  and  his  words  rang 
»ith  the  note  of  life  and  courage. 

I  loved  the  people  of  the  mission ;  and  I  loved  the 
>vork.  But  the  import  of  it  all  rose  oefore  me  for  a 
moment  Idee  a  sullen  cloud;  the  squalor  of  the 
ho^es;  the  ignorance  of  the  people,  loving  and 

grateful  though   they  were;  the  poverty  on   every 
hand;  the  obscurity  of  the  position   that  must  be 
""r^  ;  the  pitiful  support  that  we  could  hope  to  re- 
«.ve.    And  our  cozy  manse  seemed  to  grow  and 
Jance  before  my  eyes,  clothed  suddenly  with  palatial 
b    uty.     I  could  see  little  Dorothy,  the  big  sunbon- 
,   .  *"'''"e   "■=   J'™P'<=<1  face,  as  she  picked  dan- 
«.ons  on  the  lawn;  and  Harold,  the  treasure  of 
my  heart,  as  he  swung  into  the  hall  and  flung  his 


I  ^m^^  '-iSKi^u-'/v 


290 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


j  -^ 


scliool-bag  on  the  tabic,  calling  aloud  the  while  Un 
mother.  It  is  humiliating  to  write  it  down  ;  but  1 
think  the  question  of  our  living,  too,  of  simple  brcat 
and  butter,  actually  presented  itself  to  my  saddcncc 
and  bewildered  mind. 

I  suppose  it  waii  weak  and  selfish  of  me — thouf^h  1 
cared  not  for  myself — when  I  flung  myself  into  G^  i 
don's  arms  and  besought  him  as  I  did. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  pleaded  amid  my  tears  ;  "  d m't 
dearest,  for  the  children's  sakes.  !t  isn't  too  late  \  ct 
Gordon — have  j'ou  thought  of  what  this  meau^  ?— 
we'll  likely  have  to  take  Harold  out  of  school." 

He  caressed  me,  trying  to  soothe  me  as  iie  ini,i;lil 
a  child.  "  I  know  what  it  means,  Helen,"  he  an 
swered ;  "  I've  thought  of  all  that.  It  breaks  my 
heart  to  think  <"  what  it  will  bring  to  you — but  I  am 
helpless,  dear,  I'm  helpless." 

"  Not  me,"  I  sobbed,  "  not  me,  Gordon ;  I'd  [;': 
with  you  to  the  depths  of  Africa.  But  the  cliil'' 
Gordon — think  of  them.  We're  old,"  I  cried— u...  1 
really  believed  it — "  we're  old,  and  our  life  is  ncail} 
done ;  but  Harold  and  Dorothy  are  so  young,  ant 
theirs  is  all  before  them.  And  don't — oh,  Gofdon 
don't — for  our  children's  sakes." 

"  What  can  I  do,  my  child  ? "  he  murmured 
**  What  else  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Why,  Gordon — do  what  I  do.    Oh,  Gordon,  al 


V<«!J* 


^JKBr:.iMS'i:':,& 


"LOME'S  OLD  SU/EET  SONG'  2^1 
you  need  to  do  is  to  believx  those  things— the  things 
I  do,  and  the  things  your  father  does— and  preach  them, 
hke  you  used  to  at  the  first.  And  then  we  won't 
need  to  go  away  at  all.  I  believe  the  people  really 
love  you  more  now  than  they  did  years  ago— and 
they  11  keep  on  loving  you— and  then  we  won't  have 
to,  have  to  give  up  all  this,"  I  concluded.  i..y  tear- 
dim  eyes  looking  wistfully  up  into  his  tired  face. 

He  shook  his  head.    "  I  must  follow  what  light  I 
have,"  he  saM. 

"  But,  Gordon,"  I  went  on,  still  hoping  against 
hope,  "  I'm   sure  it  would   come   all   right.     We'll 
study  those  things  out  together,  dear— and  I'll  help 
you.     I've  learned  a  lot  about  them,  ever  since  that 
night— that  night,  you  remember,  when  Jennie  died. 
And  I'll  try  and  explain  everything."  I  pleaded  piti- 
fully, the  pathos  of  it  all  coming  over  me  as  I  looked 
up  at  the  strong  and  intellectual  face,  "  and  we'll 
both  go  on  together— in  the  old  paths— and  I'll  try 
so  hard  to  help  you,  dear.     Then  we  won't  have  to 
go  away  at  all— or  give  up  our  house— and  it's  all  so 
dark  ahead  of  us,  for  the  children,  I  mean." 

"  I  can't  sell  my  soul  for  bread,  Helen,"  he  an- 
swered solemnly ;  "  and  I  know  as  well  as  you  what 
It  all  means.  My  father's  heart  is  nearly  broken 
•low." 

"  And,  Gordon,"  I   whispered,  still  pressing   my 


if  f^ 


^'■^iA  <\, 


^fiiiiiMT'iJ '  ■  iMiTmiinmi^nn  if  • 


21)3 


THE  ATTIC   QUEST 


poor  plea,  "  there's  another  thing  we'll  do  "  as  I  drew 
his  face  do'vn  beside  my  lips. 

"  What,  dearest  ?  " 

•«  We'll— we'll  pray  together,  Gordon  ;  every  day," 
I  faltered,  "every  day,  that  God  will  make  us 
believe  the  right  things.  And  He  will— I  know  He 
will." 

"  I've  prayed  that  for  long,"  he  murmured  lun' 
"  Oh,  my  darling,  I  love  you  so,"  and  his  lips  pressed 
t'aemselves  to  mine  with  a  reverence  and  a  passion  I 
had  never  felt  before. 


,   f 


Let  me  write  it  down,  for  the  comfort  of  every 
troubled  heart,  that  the  holiest  hours  in  all  life's  ret- 
rospect are  those  that  are  clothed  in  sorrow.    The 
years  have  fled  ;  yet  the  years  are  with  mc  still.    And 
■vhen  one  sits  in  the  gloaming  (as  I  sit  now;  and 
looks  back  at  all  the  distant  days,  the  lure  that  casts 
its  spell  upon  the  heart  comes  not  from  the  radiant 
hour  of  mirth  or  ecstasy ;  nor  from  the  period  of 
glad   prosperity;  nor   from    the    season    of  echoing 
mirth  and  laughter.     Not  there  does   IMeaiory  ask 
leave  to  linger.     But  it  hovers  long,  in  sweet  and 
heartful  reverie,  about  some  hour  of  tender  grief, 
some  season  of  blessed  pain— blessed  always,  tender 
evermore,   because    it   has   been   glorified   by   love, 
robbed  of  all  its  bitterness  by  the  loyalty  ui  buine 


"LOl^FS    OLD   SirEET   SONQ-     293 

dear  heart  that  ratne  closer  and  closer  to  your  ov  ., 
amid  the  darkness. 

"he    home    of  early   n.arried   life   is   the   heart's 
-arthly  home  forever.     '  knew  that  now;  and  mem- 
ory bathes  the  soul  in  tears  as  '  .ccall  our  last  night 
bcneaih  the  roc.f  of  that  St.  A  :  '.,  v's  manse.     Every- 
thing  was  packed  and  ready.     The  new  house,  the 
tiny,  shabby  house  that  was  next  day  to  become  our 
home,  was  waiting  for  our  advent.     The  rude  but 
loving  hands  of  some  of  the  helpers  at  the  mission 
had  joined  with  ours  to  make  it  ready.     And  for  our 
living   there,  they  were   providing  us  with  a   little 
salary;  pitifully  small—but  our  children  would  have 
clothes  and  bread. 

My  heart  was  like  to  break ;  but  we  spent  that  last 
evening  in  u       nquerable  brightness.     I  know  I  was 
no  less  cheer.,  than  Gordon-and  ever  and  anon  I 
wondered  if  his  heart  were  as  sad  as  mine.     The  most 
pitiful  feature  of  it  all  was  Dorothy's  unconscious  glee 
-moving  was  such  great  fun,  she  thought.     Harold 
was  old  enough  to  catch  the  contagion  of  our  pain 
-for  pain  will  show  through  the  best  veneer  that 
courage  can  provide. 

Both  the  children,  and  their  grandfather  too,  were 
in  bed  and  sound  asleep  when  Gordon  and  I  went 
up-stairs  together  about  ten  o'clock.  We  went  into 
the  ch.idren's  room,  for  they  were  still  unparted.  the 


.r,f  *tp  ♦ 


""R.U'f,*".*      -lis**. 


294 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


little  bed  nestling  close  to  the  big  one ;  and  we  stood 
long  above  the  slumbering  forms,  our  eyes  swimminfj 
as  we  looked. 

••  I  wonder  if  it's  really  so,"  I  heard  Gordon  mur- 
mur. 

"What,  darling?"  I  said. 

"That  God  pities  us— like  we  pity  them,"  the 
sentence  finished  in  a  broken  voice.  "  It  solves  a'l 
life's  problems — if  that's  really  so." 

I  could  make  no  answer.  But  I  bowed  and  kissed 
Harold's  lovely  brow ;  then  Dorothy's. 

"  Come  with  me,  Gordon,"  I  said  gently,  after  we 
had  stood  a  while  in  silence,  starting  to  move  across 
the  hall. 

He  followed  me  into  our  own  room.  "  This  is 
harder  than  all  the  rest,"  I  said  brokenly;  "  this  is  the 
dearest  and  sacredest  room  in  the  world  to  me.  Oli, 
Gordon,"  and  I  was  sobbing  now,  "  surely  they'll  let 
me — whoever  comes  here  after  us — surely  they'll  let 
me  come  sometimes  and  see  it,  won't  they,  Gor- 
don?" 

His  arms  were  so  strong,  his  voice  so  tender. 
"  Why,  dearest,  why  ?  What  makes  this  room  so 
sacred  to  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  and  the  words  could 
hardly  come  for  sobbing ;  "  this  is  where  they  were 
born,  Gordon — where  they  both  were  born.     It  was 


'■j!;r7^difim''twm^:M^- 


tiI«5Jta3E^a^ 


•i:r.s^m^^ 


"LOIRE'S  OLD  SIVEET  SO!VG"  295 
right  there  I  lay  when  I  first  saw  Harold's  face. 
Oh,  Gordon,  I  can't— I  don't  know  how  to  give  it 

up." 

His  eyes  were  full  of  pity  and  his  voice  was 
quivering.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "yes,  it's  holy-but  we 
have  the  children  left,  my  darling."  and  he  began  to 
lead  me  gently  from  the  room.  Nor  did  he  stop  till 
we  were  standing  where  we  had  stood  before,  look- 
ing down  on  the  unconscious  forms. 

"  I'm  going  down  to  the  study  for  a  while,"  he 
said  a  little  later;  "  I  won't  be  long,"  as  he  beg'an  to 
descend  the  stairs,  his  footsteps  echoing  through  the 
dismantled  house. 

I  went  back  to  my  room,  weeping,  and  sat  down 
upon  one  of  the  trunks  that  stood  about.  Suddenly 
an  impulse  came  to  me-I  think  it  must  have  been 
from  heaven-and  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  burrowing 
eagerly  towards  the  bottom  of  the  trunk. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  stole  down  the  stairs.  I  was 
arrayed  in  my  wedding  gown.  The  years  may  have 
chafed  it  some,  but  they  had  not  availed  against 
its  beauty  and  its  richness.  The  pearl  trimming- 
and  those  other  radiant  things  that  have  no  name 
-shone  triumphant  in  the  light.  And  I  had  about 
my  neck,  and  on  my  bosom,  some  precious  lace 
that  I  had  removed  long  years  before.  The  hall 
was   almost  empty-little  there  but  our  piano,  that 


296 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


had   been   dragged  out   and  left   close   beside    the 
door.     There   was   a   mirror,  too,  still    undisturbed 
upon  the  wall;  and  I  paused  before  it  just  as  I  had 
done  that  golden  day  in   Baltimore  when  Gordon 
was  waiting  to  take  me  as  his  own  forever.     My  e}es 
rested  lovingly  on  the  sweet  and  stainless  vesture- 
it  still  fitted  me  like  a  glove,  thank  heaven — and 
then  wandered    to  the  face  above.     Long,  long  I 
gazed  into  the  answering  eyes,  the  past  lying  deep 
within  them  like  water  in  some  amber  spring.     Tlie 
face  was  older,  of  course,  and  the  signs  of  toil  and 
care  were  on  it ;  but  the  golden  glow  of  love,  I  felt, 
clothed  it  with  a  peace — and  a  beauty  too — which 
it  never  knew  on  that  far-off  wedding  day.     Poverty 
and  hardship,  I  knew,  were  waiting  at  the  gate ;  ob- 
scurity and  struggle  were  to  be  our  portion.     But 
my  husband  was  sitting  in  the  room  just  beyond  the 
door ;  my  children — oh,  the  wealth  and  sweetness  of 
the  word ! — my  children's  breathing  I  could  almost 
hear;    the   years  were  past  and  gone,  from  whose 
hands  I  had  received  them  all — and  in  that  hour  my 
wedding    robes    glistened   with  a  holier  light  than 
time  can  cast,  and  the  bridal  bliss  sprang  like  a  foun- 
tain in  my  heart. 

"  Why   so   long  ? "    Gordon   suddenly   sang   out ; 
"  come  in." 

"  I'm  coming,  dear,"  I  said,  and  I  felt  the  blitheness 


-\-}ji^i 


l3f 


>»■'  '.sskimiajom 


"LOME'S   OLD   SIVEE'T   SONO"    297 

j{  my  voice  as  it  echoed  through  the  hall.  Very 
softly  I  stepped  in  and  stood  before  him  as  he  sat  be- 
side the  dying  fire. 

His  eyes  devoured  me  with  love ;  they  roamed 
mostly  about  my  dress— which  was  exactly  what  I 
wanted.  I  think  he  glanced  once  or  twice  about  the 
room,  its  denuded  bareness  contrasting  strangely 
with  the  rich  robe  I  wore.  Then  he  rose  and  took 
me  into  his  arms— far,  deep  in— as  into  a  mighty  ref- 
uge. "  You  never  looked  so  sweet,  my  darling— 
the  years  haven't  touched  it."  was  all  he  said.  But 
he  kissed  my  hair,  my  neck,  my  lips. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later  when  we  arose  to  go 
up-stairs,  and  I  xvas  still  in  all  my  glory  as  we  moved 
out,  Gordon's  arm  still  about  me,  into  the  echoinrr 
hall.  ^ 

"  Sing  something,"  he  suddenly  requested  as  we 
passed  the  piano.  It  stood  in  sullen  silence,  as  if  it 
knew  this  to  be  a  move  for  the  worse. 

My  hands  roved  over  the  keys  for  a  little;  it  was 
hard  to  know  what  would  suit  the  hour. 

But  some  breath  of  other  days  was  wafted  in  upon 
me ;  and  I  felt  my  heart  leap  beneath  the  wedding 
lace  upon  my  bosom  as  the  song  gushed  into  my 
mind  again. 

The  light  was  dim,  the  house  disrobed,  the  piano 
out  of  tune.     But   I   can  still  see  the   rapture   in 


m..sismL'%^"^'' 


f/^w:    :.. 


298 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


Gordon's  face  as  mine  turned  up  to  meet  it  while  the 
words  came  one  by  one  : 

**  Still  must  you  call  me  tender  names 
Still  gently  stroke  my  tresses  ; 
Still  shall  my  happy  answering  heart 
Keep  time  to  your  caresses." 


N' 


XXII 
WHEN  JOY  AND   SORROW  MEET 
O.  I'm  never  going  back  again,"  and  the 
stamp  of  determination  was  on  Harold's 
face  as  he  spoke  the  words  ;  "  I'm  never 
going  back  to  school  any  more."     He  was  gravely 
adjusting  his  books  in  the  well-worn  bag  as  he  spoke 
givmg  each   one  a   final  pat  as  if  in  last  farewell' 
"  IVe  been  there  too  long,"  as  he  looked  up  at  his 
father  and  me. 

The  room  was  small,  the  furniture  shabby  and 
worn  now;  for  some  years  had  passed  since  we  came 
to  hve  in  the  little  house  that  still  preserved  to  us  an 
unbroken  circle.  We  were  all  seated  around  the  table 
•n  the  dming-room-which  was  our  only  hving-room 
-and  Gordon  had  been  telling  Dorothy  some  wonder- 
ful story  of  red  Indians  when  K  Ids  avowal  had 
suddenly  transfixed  us  all. 

It  is  wonderful  how  a  sudden  wave  of  emotion 

g'ves  prominence.  i„  the  memory,  to  everything  con- 

ectcdw,hit.     I  could  draw,  even  now.  as  accurate 

a  P.cture  of  all  the  surroundings  as  though  the  event 

yesterday.     The  room  ' 


Were 


299 


small,  as  al- 


i^jmntA^/.^^^wwL.':;. 


100 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


ready  describee'  but  so  was  the  house,  for  that  nial 
ter.  Yet  there  was  something  sweet  and  lovely,  t 
me  at  least,  about  this  tiny  room  that  night — for  m 
loved  ones  were  all  within  it.  I  was  sewing  at  th 
time,  mending,  of  whj  h  there  seemed  to  be  no  end 
but  every  now  and  then  my  eyes  would  refrts! 
themselves  upon  the  little  group.  Gordon  was  still 
despite  the  years,  by  far  the  handsomest  of  them  all 
The  tokens  of  toil  and  care  were  not  to  be  denied 
but  a  deeper  calm  and  sweetness  could  be  seen  upor 
the  noble  face  as  he  bended  over  the  golden  locks  oi 
our  little  daughter.  And  very  winsome  was  littk 
Dorothy,  laughing  up  into  her  father's  eyes,  "-cading 
there,  as  children  are  not  slow  to  do,  the  signs  of  a 
consuming  love.  Grandfather  Laird  was  dozing  in 
the  big  armchair  in  the  corner,  his  hand  still  resting 
on  his  shepherd's  staff;  dear  old  grandfather,  whose 
race  was  nearly  run,  the  strong  Scottish  face  stamped 
more  and  more  with  the  simple  grandeur  of  his 
lature  as  he  came  nearer  to  th^:  eternal  verities  on 
which  his  mind  had  dwelt  so  long. 

I  think  my  heart  had  gone  out  increasingly  to 
grandfather  as  the  years  went  by.  Denied  my  own 
immediate  circle  in  my  girlhood's  home,  my  affec- 
tions had  struck  deep  root  amid  all  that  Gordon 
loved.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  here  that  Gordon 
more  than  once  had  wanted  me  to  go  South  again— 


^rs-: 


IVHEN  JOY  AND  SORROlV  MEET      ^ox 
and  he  would  even  have  accompanied  me.     Hut  I  al- 
ways felt  it  was  too  late,  after  my  mother  had  entered 
.nto  rest-besides,  there  always  yawned  before  mc  the 
gu.f  that  still  lay  between  my  uncle  and  myhusband. 
In  addition  to  all   this,  to  tell  the  honest  truth   I 
don  t  know  how  we  could  have  devised  ways  and 
means  even  if  I  had  been  willing  to  Wsit  my  dear 
Southland  again.     For  nobody  will  ever  know  the 
bitterness  of  the  struggle  that  we  entered  upon  with 
our  departure  from  St.  Andrew's.     The  pinching  and 
panng  and  piteous  penury  that  came  with  our  change 
of  lot  hngers  with  me  yet  as  a  troubled  dream      Yet 
want  to  say,  in  case  this  story  should  ever  see  the 
ght  and  anybody  recognize  its  hero,  that  I  never 
heard  a  word  of  complaint  from  Gordon's  lips      If  I 
oved  him   before   I   almost  worshipped   him  now. 
.h  utter  abandonment  of  devotion  he  gave  himself 
to  the  strugghng   and   sinful  people  of  the  needy 

rrr'"'"'"''^"    — damongwhom 
-  found  our  work.     All  .is   buoyant  vigour,  his 
splend.d  intellect,  his  glorious  heart,  were  glen  un 
reservedly  to  his  lowly  toil. 
And  I  think  I  can  say.  with  all  regard  to  modesty. 
a    I  honestly  tried  to  help  him.     His  people  grew 
-  dear  to  me,  I  verily  believe,  as  they  were  tolm. 
Of  course,  my  work  was  largely  in  our  humble  home 
^^'H'ch  I  tried  to  make  as  bright  and  comfortableTor' 


T  m  ^^^^jasmm^^-M^^msL 


^02 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


Gordon  ai?  I  could.  The  children,  too,  filled  my  jih 
with  busy  joy — but  I  gave  every  hour  I  could  spare 
and  all  the  strength  I  could  command,  to  hdj 
Gordon  in  his  noble  drudgery. 

I  hardly  know  what  I  would  have  done,  throurrii  all 
those  trying  days,  if  it  had  not  been  for  grandfatlicr 
For  one  thing,  his  influence  over  Harold,  now  in  the 
perik  js  paths  of  youth,  filled  my  heart  with  thankful 
gladness.  His  'evotion  to  his  grandson  became  tiie 
passion  of  his  life  ;  he  seemed  unhappy  if  Harold  was 
out  of  his  sight,  and  the  boy's  future  was  his  absorb- 
ing thought. 

Then,  besides,  grandfather's  life  was  so  full  of 
Christian  peace;  and  his  faith,  in  spite  of  the  awful 
disappointment  that  Gordon's  course  had  brought 
him,  remained  true  and  tranquil  through  it  all.  I 
really  think  he  was  the  best  Christian  I  ever  knew. 
And  how  he  comforted  me,  no  one  will  ever  know 
till  all  such  secrets  be  revealed.  For  ours  was  a 
common  sorrow.  S'-«on  it  became  evident  to  us  both 
that  Gordon,  nobly  devoted  though  he  was,  was  turn- 
ing more  and  more  from  the  old  truths  that  his  father 
held  so  dear.  Nor  were  they,  I  think,  less  precious 
to  myself;  the  deeper  the  darkness  grew,  and  the 
more  Gordon  seemed  to  turn  from  the  truths  that 
had  blessed  my  life,  the  more  my  troubled  heart 
seemed  to  find  its  refuge  in  the  great  realities  of  a 


»Mi' 


H^HEN  JOY  AND  SORROIV  MEET  J03 
Divine  Saviour,  and  an  atoning  Lord,  and  a  Heavenly 
Father  who  answers  prayer;  and  I  always  found 
grandfather's  sorrowing  spirit  seeking  the  same 
solace  as  my  own. 

I  see  t!,em  all  again  as  they  sat  that  night  about 
the  table ;  the  quick  motio.  of  Gordons  head  is  vivid 
to  n  now.  as  he  turned  from  the  clamorous  Dorothy 
and  gave  all  his  attention  to  his  son. 

"IVe  been  at  school  too  long."  Harold  repeated 
firmly.  "  and  now  I'm  going  to  do  something-to 
earn  my  own  living." 

■•What  mate  you  say  that,  my  son?"  Gordon 
asked,  the  pallor  on  his  face  betraying  his  emotion. 
"Because   I've  found  out  all  about  it,"  Harold 
rephed  confidently :  "  surely  you  don't  think  I'm  such 
>  stupid  as  not  to  see  all  it  has  meant  to  you  and 
mother    all  the  sacrifice,  I  mean-and  all  the  Strug- 
8ie  you  ve  had  to  keep  me  going_a„d  all  the  things 
youve  had  to  give  up.     I  know  how  poor  we  are" 
he  went  on  Passionately,  "  and  I  should  have  stopped 
o.g  ago,  and  tried  to  help  instead  of  being  a  burden 
to  you.      Then  he  quoted  one  or  two  of  his  proof, 
«h.ch  s.mple  womanly  pride  forbids  me  to  record- 
but  ,  ey  wc„  true  enough,  and  it  nearly  broke  n,y 
l>eart  to  see  the  sadness  on  Gordon's  face.     For  there 
was  almost  nothing  he  could  say,  and  his  poor  re- 
monstrances  were  of  no  avail 


^04  THE   ATTIC    GUEST 

Look  at  mother,"  Harold  broke  out  vehemently ; 


b  liaii 


"  look  at  mother's  dress.  It's  the  same  one  she' 
for  years— and  it's  mended,"  he  added  in  fiery  sad- 
ness, "  and  it's  the  only  one  she  has  in  the  world  ex- 
cept just  one  for  Sundays — and  it's  shabby,  too.  And 
that's  all  for  me,  for  me  and  Dorothy — but  especially 
for  me— and  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it  rny  longer. 
Besides,  I've  got  a  place — and  I'm  going  to  hcgm 
on  Monday.  I'm  going  away  to  Carletonvillc.  liut 
I'll  be  home  for  Christmas,"  the  fiery  tone  inciting 
into  tenderness  as  he  rose  from  hiii  seat  and  came 
over  beside  me. 

For  he  had  caught  the  expression  of  my  face.  Ah 
me !  there  are  few  moments  in  a  woman's  life  like  to 
that  which  announces  the  outgomg  of  her  child  from 
her  home,  how  humble  soever  that  home  may  be. 
Especially  if  the  outgoing  one  be  her  first-born  son' 
It  was  as  if  a  knife  had  gone  through  my  heart. 

"  But,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  my  boy  ?— w  hat 
kind  of  work,  I  mean  ? "  I  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice,  the  garment  I  was  mending  falling  unheeded 
to  the  floor. 

"  It's  a  bank,"  he  answered  proudly  ; "  Mr.  Duncan 
got  me  in.  I  didn't  say  anything  to  anybody  till  I  got 
it  settled.  But  I  wrote  the  application  myself— and 
they  said  it  was  the  best  letter  they  ever  got  from  an 
appiicar*-."  a  slight  flush  of  pride  on  the  boyish  face. 


r:^^'i 


WHEN  JOY  AND  SORROli^  MLEl  )o, 
"And  Mr.  Duncan  says  there's  other  wok  I  can  ect 
to  do  at  ni«hts-and  Ml  be  able  to  support  rny.clf 
from  the  start."  his  breath  coming  fast  w.th  grown,, 
exatement  as  he  turned  hi.  eyes  first  on  h.s  father 
and  then  on  me. 

••  Vou  shan't.-  I  cried,  with  sudden  fear,  as  it 
broke  on  me  that  he  was  actually  going  away.  Our 
poverty  was  as  nothing  then.  "  -,  Harold,  you 
mastn-t--I  cannot  let  you  go."  and  I  clung  to  him  as 
though  he  were  going  away  that  selfsame  hour 

Gordon  seemed  unable  to  speak,  silting  .till  and 
stanng  at  th«  boy  Harold's  cheeks  were  glowing 
and  his  eyes  were  sp.rkhng;  h.s  arm  was  still  about 
me. 

Suddenly  n,y  husband  found  a  voice,  breaking  out 
.a.o  a, orrcn.  of  remonstrance.  Really, ,:  .as  quite 
nl.kc  Inn,  to  grow  so  agitated-but  Gordon's  whole 
'*  .vas  m  his  children.  "  If  your  mother  and  I  can 
stand  ,,,  there's  no  reason  why  you  should  object,"  he 
pleaded,  after  many  other^rguments  had  been  pressed 
■»vau,.    But  Harold  was  immovable;  his  word  had 

, ,'.'  *■!'  *'  ^^^^'^  g^'-K."  came  suddenly  from  grand- 
-Uers  chair  i„  the  corner.  I  think  we  had  forgotten 
he  »as  there.  ••  Ifs  the  auld  way  o'  the  world-the 
Ernies  must  leave  the  nest  some  Ume,"  he  added  his 


^ri^^mm. 


jo6 


THE   A77IC  GUEST 


^.;*l 


own  voice  shaking.  ••  An'  his  faithcr's  God  wuU  I 
him  in  His  guid  an'  holy  keeping — the  Almicht 
find  the  path  for  him.  Come  here,  my  ladlie,"  i 
he  held  out  his  arms.  Harold  came  over,  wundcrii 
the  patriarch  laid  his  hands  in  blessing  on  his  he 
and  then  committed  him  to  God  in  woidi  of  m 
beauty  as  I  think  I  never  heard  before. 

But  Gordon  protested  long  and  earnestly.  "  Ai 
thing  but  the  bank,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  I  cannot  be 
my  son,  to  think^of  you  in  a  bank." 

"  That's  what  I  think,"  I  cried,  eagerly  secondin 
"  they  make  them  work  so  hard — and  it's  all  indoors 
and  Harold's  not  ov.rly  strong,"  I  pleaded,  careless 
the  splendid  form  that  stood  beside  grandfather's  cht 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  Gordon  int 
rupted  in  his  abrupt  way ;  "  it's  not  of  that  I'm  thii 
ing  at  all.  It's  the  peril  of  the  thing,  my  son— t 
danger,  the  temptations— just  to  think  of  the  mon 
that  passes  through  a  lad's  hands  when  he's  put  ir 
a  bank.  And  that's  how  so  many  of  them  are  ruin 
— for  time  and  eternity,"  he  added  solemnly. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  cried  in  protest,  "  you  don't  me 
stealing,  Gordon,  stealing  money — you  don't  me 
that?" 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  mean,"  said  Gordon,  u 
trained  to  subterfuge.  "  I  mean  the  peril  of  handlii 
so  much  money." 


i*^HEN  JOY  AND  SORROl^  MEET  yrj 
Whereat  I  fell  into  a  storm  of  dissent,  half  in  ex- 
ctemcnt.  half  i„  anger,  as  though  my  son  had  been 
accused  already.  I  fear  I  spoke  words  harsh  and  un- 
reasonable, but  my  defense  must  be  that  I  was  all 
unstrung  with  sudden  grief  and  fear.  Till  by  and  by 
1  wa.  as  violent  in  my  demand  for  his  fathers  consent 
as  I  had  been  in  denial  of  my  own.  so  strange  are  the 
cross-currents  Uiat  trouble  a  woman's  heart 

But  we  might  as  well  have  all  been  silent,  so  far  as 
any  effect  on  Harold  was  concerned.  I  le  had  prom- 
ised and  he  was  going^nd  that  was  the  end  of  it 
So  the  outcome  of  the  whole  matter  was  a  kind  of 
tact  agreement,  before  we  parted  for  the  night,  that 
llxold  was  tohavehis  way. 
When  Gordon  and  I  were  in  our  own  room,  fl,e 

•■'■"  '^y  poor  Vwildcrcd  mind  had  conjured  up 
•■  Ut  me  .vrite  .o  uncle,"  was  the  burden  of  my  cry 
"■four  boy  i.  living  us  because  we're  not  able  I J 
S"Pl»rt  l,im,  uncle  could  change  all  that;  he  could  at 
least  undertake  to  complete  his  education-and  I 
know  he  will,  I  know  he  will." 
But  Gordon's  face  was  like  marble.     In  the  last  ap- 

peal  a  Scotchman  is  always  Scotch-and  I  knew  Gor- 
^on  wa  t,,i„,i„g  ^r,,^,  ,^^  __.^^_^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^ 

al  but  turned  from  uncle's  door.    ■•  Not  while  we 
>"v.  a  crust  to  cat  or  a  hand  to. oil,"  l,e  said,  ■„. 


}o8 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


tone  so  low  and  resolute  that  I  actually  feared 
press  my  argument  with  another  word ;  "  no  ch 
of  mine  shall  be  dependent  on  his  father's  enemy 
which  language  smote  me  to  the  heart— nor  6^: 
think  Gordon  would  have  uttered  it  in  a  cala; 
mood. 

Before  we  put  out  the  light,  his  face  still  white  a: 
drawn,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  to  war 

the  bed.     We  knelt  and  prayed  together but  n 

heart  was  bleeding.  And  anyhow— it  is  hard  to  wri 
it  down — Gordon  and  I  didn't  seem  so  close  togeth 
now,  when  we  prayed,  as  we  once  had  been.  I  li; 
the  phantom  feeling  that  we  prayed  apart.  lie  Ik 
beckoned  me,  years  before,  in  to  faith's  Holy  Vhi 
where  the  Divine  Saviour  waited  for  us  both ;  I  \\z 
faltered  in,  groping  for  the  way,  bringing  a  brokt 
and  contrite  heart— and  I  had  found  my  husban 
gone. 

It  was  the  deep  dark  before  the  dawn  when  I  slippe 
noiselessly   into  Harold's  room— and  I  prayed  bt 
side  his  bed.     I  loved  to  hear  him  breathing;  and 
wondered  if  God  could  hear  me— my  soul,  I  mear 
half  panting  in  its  loneliness. 


XXIII 
"THE    VOICE   OF   RACHEL'' 

WHEN  I  began  this  chapter  it  was  with  the 
purpose   of    telling   about    grandfather's 
home-going.      But    not    to  his   beloved 
Scotland,  of  whose  heathery  hills  he  seemed  to  think 
more  fondly  and  speak  more  longingly  as  the  years 
went  by.     It  never  lost  its  charm  for  us.  this  loving 
talk  of  the  old  Scotch  shepherd  about  the  far-off  hills 
and  valleys  of  his  native  land ;  even  I.  who  had  never 
been  near  them  at  all.  came  to  be  quite  familiar  with 
those    sunlit  slopes,    their  glistening  heather,  their 
babblmg  springs,  their  bleating  flocks  that  roamed 
from  base  to  brow.     No.  not  to  Bonnie  Scotland_as 
he  fondly  called  it^but  to  a  fairer  clime,  did  the 
>veary  shepherd  turn  his  face  at  last. 

But  before  I  come  to  this  I  must  tell  of  something 
else  ;  something  I  would  to  God  might  be  left  unre- 
corded, for  my  pen  is  aching  while  I  write.  But  this 
other-what  I  am  about  to  tell-had  its  own  part.  I 
thmk.  m  starting  dear  old  grandfather  on  the  long 
journey  from  which  he  will  return  no  more.  For  it 
's  about  Harold,  who  was  grandfather's  idol,  as  I  have 
Sircady  said. 

309 


3IO 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


Our  son  had  gone  away,  grief  and  hope  mingli 

with  the  last  farewell.     That  memory  is  with  me  y 

Indeed,  I  never  rise  early  now,  around  five  or  s 

without  the  feeling  that  some  one  dear  to  me  is  { 

ing  far  away.     I  remember  the  sweet  calm  of  t 

early  dawn,  the  first  glad  notes  of  the  singing  bin 

careless  of  human  tears,  the  sparkle  of  the  dew  up 

the  little  lilac  bush  before  the  door,  as  we  went  p; 

it  with  Harold's  trunk.     Whr "  a  hard  time  I  had 

press  into  Harold's  hand  the  poor  little  dollar  I  h 

saved  from  our  s"     :y  means  as  my  own  special  g 

— how  pathetic  it  was  to  see  the  care  with  which  1 

tucked  it  away  in  a  painfully  capacious  pocketbo( 

that  grandfather  had  given  him ;  how  lonely  it  looki 

in  the  infinite  space  around  it !     And  I  rememb 

how  poor  old  grandfather  noticed  it,  and  how  he  b 

wailed  himself  that  he  had  not  kept  till  then  the  hu; 

dred  pounds  he  had  brought  with  him  from  Scotlan 

But  this,  his  only  wealth,  had  been  "  invested,"  as  1 

had  told  us  over  and  over  again  for  months  after  tl 

investment  had  been  made.     Poor  grandfather !  v 

had  heard  nothing  for  long  of  the  speculation  tin 

had  looked  so  rosy  to  him  then. 

And  I  remember,  most  vividly  of  all,  what  a  tiir 
I  had  trying  to  comfort  Gordon  when  he  came  bac 
from  the  station.  After  all,  perhaps  I  must  adm 
that  a  father  loves  his  son  quite  as  xnuch  as  his  firei 


"THE   P^OICE   OF   RACHEL"      j,, 

born  girl.     And  it  seemed  strange  that  I  had  to  be 
the  strong  one.  but  so  it  was.     When  evening  came, 
and  we  had  family  prayers.  Gordon's  pleading  didn't 
comrort  me  at  all.     But  I  had  learned  long  before  this 
that  the  new  view  of  prayer  refuses  to  concede  that 
anything  can  change  •<  the  course  of  nature  "—I  hate 
that  phrase-and  teaches  that  it  is  only  communion, 
pious  meditation,  and  not  supposed  to  be  used  for 
asking  for  what  you  want.     So  Gordon  had  gradually 
given  up  asking  for  particular  things,  though  heaven 
knows  there  was  enough  to  ask.     Higher  critics  are 
the  highway  robbers  of  the  soul. 

Well,  everything  went  along  smoothly  enough  for 
nearly  a  year.     Harold    wrote   twice  a  week,  and 
seemed  delighted  with  his  work.     He  expected  soon 
to  be  promoted,  one  of  his  last  letters  said ;  and 
Gordon  told  me  that  a  general  manager  gets  twenty 
thousand  z  ,  .ar-that  is,  after  he  gets  the  position, 
of  course.    I  used  to  think  Harold  was  having  a 
pretty  lively  time-socially,  I  mean-and  he  seemed 
to  spend  a  good  deal  on  clothes.     But  he  did  copy- 
mg.  and  other  things,  out  of  hours,  and  made  almost 
enough  to  pay  his  way.     And  we  knew  he  was  asked 
out  a  great  deal,  as  bank  clerks  always  are-and  that's 
enough  to  turn  any  young  fellow's  head.     Society 
seems  to  do  its  very  best  to  ruin  such  youths  as  turn 
thejf  footsteps  towards  a  bank;  Gordon  said  himself 


3\2 


THE   A -Trie   GUEST 


that  most  of  these  clerks  do  more  credit  to  t'.: 
tailor  than  their  schoolmaster.  As  for  nic,  i 
had  fifty  sons  not  one  of  them  would  ever  go  it 
that  profession  with  my  consent — unless  he  bej^nn 
Ceneral  manager,  with  twenty  thousand  a  year. 

By  and  by  Harold  began  to  get  interested  in  ypo 
—mostly  lacrosse,  I  tliink— and  that  was  the  p'  r 
to  our  Gethsemane.  I  shall  not  dwell  upon  the  ? 
and  bitter  stor)'.  But  one  day  a  letter  came  tVc 
Carletonville;  the  envelope  bore  the  bank's  nan 
but  the  address  v^  not  in  Harold's  hand. 

"  It's  about  his  promotion,  Gordon,"  I  said  cxi; 
antly ;  "  it's  about  Harold— he's  been  raised  at  la; 
You  open  it." 

Gordon  was  radiant.  "  No,  Helen,"  he  said  unsel 
ishly;  "he  owes  it  more  to  you  than  mc— ope 
it  yourself.  He  gets  his  financial  abilitj-  from  ]•, 
mother,"  and  he  leaned  forward  to  hear  nic  read  tl: 
news. 

I  opened  it  so  carefully  ;  for  I  meant  to  preserve 
always—till  he  was  general  man^iger,  at  least.  :,I 
eye  ran  swiftly  over  the  contents  and  I  fci:  with 
loud  outcry  into  Gordon's  arms. 

I  scarcely  need  to  tell  the  story  further.  The  lei 
ter  was  not  unkind — I  remember  remarking  thai,  i 
a  numb,  mechanical  way,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  a^nn; 
iiiere  was  even  a  little  stern  note  of  sympathy  in  ii 


"THE  yoiCE  OF  RACHEL"  ^,3 
as  the  authorities  outlined  the  piteous  tragedy.  I 
suppose  they  knew  we  had  human  hearts.  It  was 
the  old  story;  debt,  then  betting,  then  petty  irregu- 
larities in  the  hope  that  the  deficit  would  soon  be 
overtaken.  Then  a  little  more;  then  a  false  signa- 
ture-! cannot  write  the  other  word ;  then  more- 
and  the  man  who  wrote  us  used  the  term  embezzle- 
ment.    That  was  when  I  fainted  in  Gordons  arms. 

All  that  night  I  lay  awake,  alone.     Gordon  had 
left  by  the  first  train  to  go  to  Harold.    I  pleaded 
with  him  to  bring  our  boy  home  with  him.     And 
I   shall   remember   to   all  eternit)    '         >  hjte  his 
lips  were  when  he  said  he  would-./  /,.    -ould.    I 
knew  what  he  meant ;  and  I  fell  to  trembling  so  that 
I  could  hardly  say  good-bye.     Then  I  went  to  bed 
and  lay  all  night  staring  wildly  into  the  dark.     And 
that  night,  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  married  life  I 
cursed  poverty-out  loud  I  cursed  it  with  bitter  em-' 
phasis-the  poverty  that  made  us  so  helpless  ,;ow 
For  I  fancied,  poor  thing,  that  all  would  be  well  if 
the  money  could  only  be  replaced.     I  cared  nothing 
for  the  tokens  of  poverty  that  were  all  about  me  the 
poor  and  ill-furnished  house,  the  scanty  wardrobe 
the  meagre  larder-these  were  but  trifles  to  me  then' 
But  I  thought  bitterly  of  the  people  I  knew  in  Hert- 
ford who  had  plenty  of  money,  once  friends  of  ours 
but  lost  to  us  now  ;  and  I  silently  impeached  the  poor 


3'4 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


li 


people  of  our  mission,  as  if  they  were  somehow 

sponsible  for  it  all.     I  blamed  Gordon,  too it  \ 

all  due  to  his  wandering  from  the  beaten  path— £ 
I  breathed  out  threatenings  and  slaughter  agai 
every  German  theologian  that  ever  lived. 

It  was  a  couple  of  hours  before  the  dawn  wh 
my  heart  suddenly  fell  to  beating  wildly— some  c 
was  gently  trying  the  front  door,  the  knob  slo» 
moving  back  and  forward.  I  listened,  trembling 
moment  later  all  was  still.  Then  I  heard  steps  rac 
ing  round  on  the  walk  beneath  my  room;  I  r( 
and  crept  to  the  open  window,  finally  summoni 
strength  to  call  out  a  timid  challenge. 

"  Mother,  it's  me—it's  Harold,  mother,"  came 
subdued  voice  from  below. 

I  almost  fainted  for  very  joy.     I  was  never 

happy  before  in  all  my  life ;  an  intoxicating  sense 

gladness,  rioting  like  a  flood,  rushed  over  me  as 

turned  and  flew  down-stairs  to  the  door.    A  mome 

later  my  arms  were  about  my  son  as  I  led  him,  som 

times  laughing,  sometimes  crying,  bacw  to  my  rooi 

I  remember  how  tight  I  closed  the  door  behind  i 

as  if  we  were  to  be  shut  in  together  forevermoi 

And  then  he  crept  into  bed  beside  me,  just  as  he  h; 

done  in  the  dear  old  days  when  he  was  a  little  f( 

low ;  and  I  lay  with  my  cheek  close  to  his,  my  arn 

about  him,  no  word  of  reproach,  even  of  enquii 


never  so 


"THE    VOICE   OF   RACHEL"      3,^ 
coming  from  my  lips.     A  strange  unreasoning  joy  it 
was  that  possessed  me-I  miglu  have  known  it  could 
not  last-and  I  called  him  by  all  the  old  tender  boy- 
ish names  while  my  hands  roamed  among  his  hair 
sometimes  descending  to  trace  the  features  of  his' 
face,  just  to  make  sure  that  he  was  there.     I  remem- 
ber how,  more  than  once,  there  flitted  before  me  a 
vision  of  the  far-off  days  when  he  had  lain  a  babe 
bes.de  me.  nourished  at  my  breast-at  which  I  held 
h.m  closer  than  before,  my  bosom  aching  with  its 
load  of  love. 

He  told  me  all  about  it ;  about  the  tragedy ;  and 
tocncd  like  one  dead.     I  know  now  what  they 
feel  who    stand   before   the   Great    White   Throne 
Awaiting  the  word  of  destiny.     Harold's  voice  .rew 
<>»er  as  his  speech  went  on.  and  as  it  grew  nearer  to 
.  ,0  dawn.     He  seemed  to  fear  the  return  of  morning. 
And  slowly,  with  ghostly  outline,  it  was  made  clear 
to  me  that  he  could  no.  linger-that  he  was  no.  my 
own  a.  all.     They  were  likely  in  quest  of  him  even 
«».  cruel  men,  scornful  of  a  mother's  love;  perhaps 
already  l,urryu,g   towards  his    fa.her's   house.     My 
''^  were  s.rong,   I    knew,  infini.ely  strong-and 
*=>;  closed  ab„„.  him  again  in  a  passion  of  pos- 
y^^.     V=.  I  knew  how  weak  and  powerless  they 

saou,d  be  outstretched  upon  him. 


3x6 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


So  I  bade  him  go.  First  with  gentle  entreal 
then  with  insistent  urgency,  then  with  vehemence 
command,  I  thrust  him  from  my  crying  heart. 
arose,  groping  for  some  garments  that  might  In 
the  disguise  he  would  surely  need — with  feeble  c,i 
ning  I  refused  to  light  a  lamp — searching  for  i! 
and  that  to  serve  our  piteous  purpose.  With  wli 
difficulty,  I  remember,  did  I  find  one  of  Gordon's  c 
hats,  dusting  it  carefully,  and  changing  its  sha 
from  one  form  to  another  to  make  it  look  mc 
natural  on  Harold's  head. 

Soon  we  were  at  the  door.  The  dawn  was  glii 
mering.  "  Go,  my  darling,"  I  said  hoarsely,  "  the 
will  be  few  about  when  you  catch  the  morning  tra: 
Come  to  me  once  again — put  your  arms  around  n 
tight — kiss  me,  my  son." 

But    he   did    not   move,   looking    down  sham 
facedly  at  the  ground.     Again  I  besought  him  to 
gene. 

"  How  can  I  ? "  he  said  abruptly  at  last,  t 
words  like  to  choke  him ;  "  I  have  no  monc 
mother." 

This  smote  me  Hke  a  blow.  But  suddenly  ai 
with  a  little  cry  of  joy — such  strange  eddies  are  the 
in  the  stream  of  sorrow — I  remembered  a  few  dolh 
I  had  sorely  saved  for  the  purchase  of  the  new  go\ 
I  needed  so.     I  sprang  back  into  the  house  and  \ 


-•mm. 


"THE    l^O/CE   OF   RACHEL-      3,7 

appeared  in  a  moment  with  the  scanty  savings—I 
caught  the  rumble  of  distant  wheels  and  knew  the 
uorld  would  be  soon  astir.  Harolds  face  fell  as  he 
glanced  at  the  money  I  thrust  so  triumphantly  into 
hi^  hand ;  it  was  not  cnough_I  might  have  known 
it  cuuld  not  be  enough. 

We  stood  together,  bowed  with  disappointment. 
Suddenly  the  rumbling  wheels  came  nearer,  till,  as 
they  hove  in  sight  around  a  corner,  I  saw  it  was  the 
milkman's  wagon.     A  quick  inspiration  came  to  me 
as   I   bade   Harold  slip  back  into  the  house.     The 
milkman's  ruddy  face  showed  its  surprise  as  his  eyes 
fell  on  me,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  leave  his  wares 
at  the  back  door  and  go  upon  his  way.     I  greeted 
him  as   calmly  as    I   could ;   and  then,  not  without 
shame.  I  boldly  asked  him  if  he  could  lend  me  a  lit- 
tle money.     -  A  friend  of  mine  is  going  away,"  I 
said,  "  on  the  morning  train-and  he  doesn't  happen 
to  have  quite  enough." 

The  honest  swain,  nothing  doubtin-.  fumbled  in 
his  pockets,  finally  producing  a  good  deal  more  than 
my  poor  savings  had  amounted  to.  I  took  the 
money  from  him,  my  heart  beating  wildly  at  the  sud- 
den ddiverance.  Then  I  went  in  to  Harold  and  put 
>t  in  his  hand.  It  hurt  me,  beyond  words  to  tell,  to 
see  the  confusion  and  pain  with  which  the  poor  lad 
took  the  money,  though  it  was  from  his  mother. 


318 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


Then  his  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  "  Cant 
say  good-bye  to  Dorothy  ? "  he  said  brokenly ,  " 
want  to  say  good-bye  to  Dorothy." 

The  tenderness  of  his  tone  almost  overcame  mc. 
put  my  arm  about '  m  and  we  went  up-stairs  tof;ct!ic 
quickly,  for  the  time  was  passing.  VVe  couM  hci 
grandfather's  heavy  breathing  as  we  passed  his  di>ui 
Harold  looked  in  wistfully,  but  I  shook  my  hcai 
Dorothy  was  sound  asleep,  hei  golden  curls  d 
shevelled  on  the  pillow,  her  lips  slightly  parted, 
much  worn  doll  emerging  from  beneath  one  art 
My  eyes  only  glanced  at  her,  then  turned  to  Harold 
face,  silently  filling  as  I  saw  the  evidences  of  h 
grief.  He  stood  a  moment  above  the  bed,  tin. 
stooped  and  kissed  the  rosy  face ;  she  stirred,  snulir 
in  her  sleep,  her  iiand  unconsciously  moving  tow  arc 
her  doll.  He  kissed  her  again,  unwisely — and  tl 
blue  eyes  opened  wide. 

"  Harold,"  ^he  murmured  sleepily,  "  dear  Haroi 
— I  knew  you'd  come  home — I  dreamed  you  wei 
never  going  away  any  more." 

The  boy's  lips  were  quivering,  and  wc  turnc 
softly  towards  the  door.  But  Dorothy,  still  only  ha 
awake,  uttered  a  plaintive  protest.  "  Don't  go  awa; 
Harold,"  she  mumbled,  "  get  into  your  bed,  Harold- 
your  own  beds,"  one  half -opened  eye  indicating  an  m 
used  couch  beside  her.    "Say  your  prayers  and  th; 


"THE   t^O/CE   OF  RACHEL"      j,, 

come-knecl  down  there.  Harold;'  drawing  the  bat- 
ter<'  1  doll  away  from  the  side  of  the  bed. 

He  looked  at  me.  I  motioned  ;  and  we  knelt  to- 
gether, Harold's  hand  close  bes.dc  the  vagrant  curls. 
His  voice  wad  faint  and  faltering  : 

"  Now  I  hj  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soui  to  take  " 

He   paused,  preparing   to  arise.      "Say   the  rest," 
Dorothy  murmured,  "  say  it  all,  Harold." 

Again  he  looked  at  me.  Then  his  face  sank  be- 
tween  h,s  hands  and  once  more  the  broken  voice 
-ent  on:  » God  bless  father,  and  mother,  and 
Dorothy-and  bless  Harold  and  make  him  a  good 
boy,  for  Christ's  sake.     Amen." 

The  little  monitor  seemed  satisfied,  slipping  back 
aga,n  mto  the  stream  of  slumber.     Harold  and  I  went 
gently  down  the  stairs.     I  spoke  no  word  but  held 
h.m  t>  my  bosom,  aching  still,  with  such  a  fierce 
flame  of  longing  as   I  had  never  known  before      I 
opened  the  door;  even  then  I  paused  to  adjust'the 
••at.  so  large  and  serious  looking,  on  his  head.     He 
passed  out.  his  face  averted,  and  started  running  on 
js  way-o„,  on.  away  from  home,  away  from  his 
mothers  empty  arms. 


¥rn^ 


:.\    Ir} 


^' 


yx> 


7HE  A77IC  GUEST 


I  went  back  to  the  room  where  his  sister 
Long  I  stood  above  the  vacant  bed,  wonderin^- 
terly  why  I  had  not  gloried  more  in  those  old  j.jI 
days  when  two  dear  tiny  heads  lay  u^.on  the  pilli 
there.  A  few  minutes  after  I  heard  the  whi^^tliiif 
a  train ;  I  sank  beside  the  empty  bed  and  trice 
pray — but  my  lips,  I  know  not  why,  could  frame 
words  except  the  words  of  Harold's  prayer. 


XXIV 

■■C0ME.ETTR,CK,y^aiiOU^,COME" 

IT  -.as  two  long  days  before  Gordon  returned  to 
me.    He  knew  the  worst,  „f  course,  but  had 
hngered  at  CarletonviUe  in  the  hope  that  he 
m.ght  get  some  trace  of  Harold.     A  telegram  to  me, 
nd  another  from  me  to  him,  told  enough  to  send  h,m 
l.on,e  at  once.     Poor  Dorothy's  eyes  looked  wonder- 
.nsly  upon  us  as  her  father  held  me  in  his  arms  so 
l™g  and  so  silently  after  he   came  in  the   door. 
Grandfather  turned  his  troubled  face  away,  pretend- 
■ng  to  qaze  out  of  the  window 
•■  You  look  so  old,  Gordon,"  I  said  unguardedly,  as 

I    rcwbac    to  look  once  more  on  the  haggard  fL 
I  «'«  old,  my  darling,"  was  all  his  answer,  as  he 
dreiv  me  to  him  again. 

1  forget  what  we  talked  about  that  evenmg_it  was 
areadsomehour.     And  I  actually  feared  for  Gordon 

treak,ug  out  ,„to  a  flood  of  grief,  sometimes  sitting 
>»"^m  stony  silenc.        felt  gu„ty  in  the  though! 

.•as  more  composed  than  he;  once  or  tw.ce 
'  "y^^lf  admitting  that  my  faith  was  stronger 


that 
I  cai 


^ 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


than  his — but  I  dismissed  the  comparison  as  phai 
saical.  Yet  that  was  my  chief  concern  for  n^/  .i. 
band — 1  feared  for  the  influence  tliis  sorrow  woj 
have  on  his  secret  Hfe.  I  knew  then,  oh  !  he  a  v 
I  knew,  that  only  one  anchor  could  hold  amid 
storm  like  this.  And  the  very  ones  who  had  tuug 
me  this  were  God  and  Gordon. 

The  gloaming  was  just  deepening  into  dark  \\\\\ 
I  came  back  to  the  study  after  telling  Dorotliy  goo 
night;  grandfather's  chair  was  close  beside  Gordon 
the  white  head  visible  through  the  gloom. 

••  Noo's  the  time  to  use  yir  faith,"  the  old  man  w 
saying  softly ;  "  naebody  needs  a  licht  till  the  mi: 
gathers  roun'  aboot  them.  An'  there's  ac  thin 
there's  ae  thing,  my  son,  ye  maun  aye  keep  savin' 
yirsel' :  the  lac'dic's  juist  as  dear  to  God  as  he  is 
you  an'  Helen — if  yc  love  him,  it's  because  God  lov 
us  a',"  and  the  quivering  voice  fell  on  my  harrow 
heart  like  music  from  some  steeple  far  aloft.  "  A}  t 
he  went  on  as  if  to  himself,  "  Harold  canna'  uanii 
ayont  the  Faither's  care — an'  we  can  aye  follow  hi 
wi'  p'  lyer. 

"  Rax  Gordon  the  Buik,  lassie,"  he  suddenly  sa: 
after  we  had  sat  a  while  in  silence. 

I  did  as  I  was  bidden  and  Gordon  received  it  wit 
out  a  word.     It  seemed  to  me,  though    perhaps 
was  only  fancy,  as  he  held  it  a  moment,  then  open 


I 


"COME,    ETTRICK;    YARROW,    COME"    323 

it  slowly  and  began  turning  the  pages  over,  that  there 
uas  a  reverent  eagerness  about  it  such  as  had  long 
been  ^vanting.     I    wondered,   fearfully,  if  this   new 
ministry  were  already  working  its  blessed  way.     And 
he  passed  Hosea  by,  though  he  had  been  reading  for 
some  time  from  that  section  of  Uie  Scriptures ;  he 
had  some  books  on  those  old  writers  that  he  was 
delving  into,  and  he  always  read  at  family  worship 
from  the  parts  he  was   studying  for  himself— there 
was  so  much  of  this  that  I  had  really  grown  weary 
of  the  prophets,  shameful  tliough  it  may  be  to  con- 
less  it.     Gordon  still  turned  the  leaves,  nor  stopped 
till  he  came  to  the  fourteenth  of  St.  John  :  "  Let  not 
}-our    heart    be    troubled,"    which  he    read   with    a 
trembling  voice  that  interpreted   it  beyond  all  the 
power  of  German   scholarship.     It  was  like  a  great 
anthem  to  my  soul  that  night,  and  I  think  I  gloried 
as    much  in   Gordon's    voice  as    in   the    wonderful 
'.'.  ords. 

When  we  knelt  to  pray  I  slipped  over  to  Gordon's 
cl'.air,  and  we  bowed  together,  his  hand  tight  clashed 
:"  niiiie.  I  prayed  for  Gordon  all  the  time  we  were 
I^endcd  thus,  my  heart  full  of  a  kind  of  thankful  joy 
that  mingled  strangely  with  the  passion  of  loss  and 
lonehness  already  there.  Tlie  prayer  was  beautiful; 
and  just  before  its  close  Gordon  stopped,  tried  again, 
then  faltered  out  witli  a  kind  of  sob  : 


324 


THE  A77IC   CUE  ;r 


"  And,  oh,  God,  give  us  back  our  son — bring  li 
back  to  us,  oh,  Father  of  us  all."  My  heart  leaf 
for  joy,  li'"?  one  whose  long  night  was  almost  past 

No  word  was  spoken  as  grandfather  and  1  slipj 
out  a  few  minutes  later;  I  went  with  him  tu 
room,  to  see  that  everything  was  ready.  "  Tlic  g 
Shepherd  '11  bring  the  wannerin'  lamb  hame  yet," 
said  as  I  turned  to  go,  the  strong  features  struggli 
with  emotion  ;  "  He'll  bring  them  baith  back— b; 
till  Himsel' — did  ye  no'  tak'  notice  o'  Gordo 
prayer  ?  He's  comin'  hame,  thank  God,  he's  core 
hame,"  and  the  old  man's  voice  was  touched  w 
heavenly  hope. 

The  next  morning,  grandfather  was  -  '  ith  \ 
birds.     The  day  was   bright;  and  the  r- 

long  his  daily  care — was  still  a  specialty  of  grai 
father's.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  live  more  and  ni' 
in  the  past,  the  farther  it  receded.  For  days 
would  talk  of  little  else  but  the  far-off  Scottish  hi 
and  the  glint  of  the  sun  through  the  clouds  upon 
heather,  and  the  solemn  responsibilities  of  the  Ian 
ing  season,  and  the  sagacity  of  his  sheep-dogs,  al 
whose  names  he  remembered.  How  often,  especia 
would  he  tell  us  of  "  Ettrick  "  and  "  Yarrow,"  twc 
his  choicest  collies,  named  for  his  native  strcai 
"  This  wad  be  a  graun'  day  for  the  sheep,"  or  "  ther 


■^&^W' 


"COME.  En  RICK;  YARROW,  COME''  ,2', 
be  mony  a  lammie  i'  the  plaid-neuk  the  day,"  were 
frequent  opinions  of  his  when  sunshine  or  storm 
provoked  them. 

Poor  dear  grandfather !     Far  though  he  was  from 
his  beloved  Scotland,  it   was  beautiful  to  see   how 
deep  and  tranquil  was  the  happiness  of  his   heart. 
He  knew,  of  course,  how  sore  was  our  own  poverty^ 
and  I  think  it  chafed  him  sorely  that  he  could  not 
help.    When  he  first  came  out  to  the  Western  world, 
and  to  his  only  child,  I  really  believe  he  thought  the' 
hundred  pounds  he  brought  with  him  would  make 
him  well-to-do  for  life.     His  idea  was  that  all  invest- 
ments, in  this  new  land,  break  into  golden  harvest. 
So  he  had  duly  invested  his  hundred  pounds—some 
eloquent  agent  had  led  him  on-in  some  sort  of  mi- 
ning    stocks.     Old-country   people  are  so  prone  to 
th.r.c  that  the  earth,  on  this  new  continent,  and  the 
waters  under  the  earth,  and  the  mountains  on  top  of 
It,  all  turn  to  gold  if  you  touch  them.     Well,  he  in- 
vested his  hundred  sovereigns,  and  that  was  the  end 
of  grandfather's  financial  career-but  have  I  not  told 
all  about  this  already  ? 

Yet  he  was  happy  in  his  children~for  so  he  re- 
garded us  both- and  in  his  children's  children.     But 
that  morning,  the  morning  after  Gordon  came  home 
he  seemed  collapsed  with  sorrow.     Perhaps  it  was' 
the  reaction-I  do  not  know-but  it  was  evident, 


p6 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


1 


anyhow,  with  what  absorbing  love  grandfathci'.s  1 
had  gone  out  to  the  now  departed  Harold.  Hi-, 
was  thin  and  worn,  as  if  he  had  been  ill ;  his  \ 
was  husky  and  his  step  was  slow.  All  thrc 
breakfast  he  never  broke  the  silence  except  t  > ,-] 
of  Harold,  and  it  was  pathetic  to  hear  the  \ai 
suggestions  the  loving  heart  conjured  up  ao  tc 
best  way  to  get  him  back.  He  knew  little  a 
law,  dear  grandfather,  except  the  law  of  love. 
nahy  Gordon  told  him,  perhaps  too  candidly. 
Harold  was  doubtless  by  this  time  from  umic; 
country's  flag,  and  that  there  was  no  absolutiuii 
less  the  money  were  refunded — not  even  then 
added,  except  by  the  grace  of  those  whom  he 
wronged. 

"  He'll  write  to  us  onyway,  will  he  no'  ? "  gr; 
father  asked  plaintively  at  last. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said  quite  confidently;  "  oh,  \-cs, 
write." 

But    Gordon  seemed  anxious  to  prepare  me 
possible    disappointment.     "  He   likely  will,  if 
getting  on  well,"  he  said  slowly,  fearfully ;  "  if  he 
ceeos,  wherever  he  is,  I  mean.     If  he  doesn't,  F: 
I'm  afraid." 

I  dissented  warmly  from  this.     Harold  loved 
mother,   I   afifirmed.     And   then    I    remember 
Gordon  said  something  about  the  change  in  a  b 


■W>^-  \A 


ithci's  heart 

1.       II).  I  ace 

II ;  his  v._.ic'j 
Vll  thn,i;-b 
■p^  t  >  .peak 
the  \ar:uus 
p  aoi  to  til- 
little  aljnr'. 
f  love,  i-;. 
luliUly,  t::a; 
n  lunier  i:> 
Solutiuii  u:i- 
;n  then,  I..; 
liom  he  ha.l 


3  ?     <:rano- 


)li,  yes,  he? 

are  me  for 

.vill.  if  he'^ 

"  if  he  .suc- 

csn't,  I'm— 

d  loved  hi5 
»mber  how 
2  in  a  boy's 


'■COME,   ETTK/CK;    YARROIV,    COM2"    ^,7 

uiiolc  nature  that  an  experience  of  this  kind  is  liable 
to  bring  about; a  word  or  tuo  about  the  moral  sensi- 
bihties  beinj^  blunted,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
Whereat  1  flared  up  in  warm  remonstrance,  breaking 
iu^o  eulogy  of  my  son.  It  was  not  till  afterwards  tha^t 
I  realised  how  all  my  thought  of  Harold,  when  he 
came  home  that  night,  and  when  he  went  away,  was 
ahva}s  of  his  misfortune  and  never  of  his  sin— almost 
as  if  he  had  been  pitifully  wronged.  But  I  suppose 
that  is  the  way  of  every  woman's  heart,  and  I  cannot 
but  think  it  is  partly  God's  way  too. 

Early   in   the   forenoon   grandfather  disappeared, 
sendinr  word  by  a  messenger  that  he  had  availed 
himself  of  an  opportu:.;ty  to  go  into  the  country.     It 
was  evening  when  he  returned,  but  I  never  saw  a 
man  more  changed.     His  face  was  aglow  with  strange 
enthusiasm  and  the  signs  of  healing  were  upon  him"*. 
"  I  jui-st  couldna'  help  it,"  he  said  apologetically  as 
he  entered,  his  shepherd's   crook  in  his   hand.     <'  I 
v.as  fair  longin'  to  see  the  sheep,  an'  the  hills,  yince 
mair_my  heart  was   sair   for  them.     An'   I   got  a 
chance  wi'  a  mon  that  was  gaein'  oot— he  was  settin' 
"P  some  kind  o'  machinnery.     An'  I  had  a  graun' 
day  on  the  hills,"  he  went  on  dehghtedly ;  «  it  was 
fair  graun'.     There  was  a  laddie  mindin'  some  sheep 
-he  was  .-.  fine  laddie;  he  minded  me  o'  Harold— 
and  I  helpit  him  a'  the  day.    There  wasna'  ony  heather, 


32B 


THE   ATflC   GUEST 


bg^^H^ 


nae  (loot — but  the  hills  were  bonnie — and  the  1; 
had  a  collie  dog  or  twa  that  minded  me  o'  li 
An'  I  carried  yin  puir  wee  lammie  in  my  arm 
was  ailin' — and  I  lilted  the  auld  psalm^  yincc 
aneath  God's  blue  sky ;  It  was  maist  as  guid  as  ha 
and  the  aged  voice  was  all  aglow  with  gladness. 

"  You  had  a  lovely  day  for  it,  grandfather,"  I 
smiling. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered,  "  it  was  a  bonnie  da>  - 
aboot  yin  or  twa  o'clock  there  cam'  a  wee  bit  ra 
a  Scotch  mist,  ye  ken,  and  it  minded  me  o'  hari 
oh,  it's  been  a  graun'  day  the  day.  But  I  ca 
think  what  it  was  gied  me  sic'  a  longin'  for  the 
— it  was  fair  fearsome — it's  no'  a'thegither  canny 
dootin',"  and  the  old  man  shook  his  head  in  an  i 
kind  of  way,  so  characteristic  of  his  race.  " 
gaein'  to  bed,"  he  said,  moving  already  toward; 
stair;  "  I'm  fair  din  oot. 

"  What's  yon  black  thing  hangin'  there  ?  "  he 
denly  demanded,  the  keen  eyes  resting  on  the  ( 
at  the  back  of  the  hall. 

I  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the  question,  de 
ing  it  unimportant;  we  went  on  talking  for  a 
minutes. 

"  Lassie,"  he  suddenly  broke  out  again,  "  run, 
sie,  an'  see  what's  yon  black  thing  hangin'  on 
door." 


tl  the  laddie 
ne  o'  hame. 
my  arnis~it 
»  yincc  mair 
id  a,s  hame," 
iclncss, 
her,"  I  said, 

lie  da}- — an' 
:e  bit  rain— 
2  o'  hame— 
iut  I  canna' 
for  the  hills 
r  canny,  I'm 
1  in  an  eerie 
'ace.  "  Im 
towards  the 

;  ? "  he  sud- 
on  the  door 

tion,  deem- 
y  for  a  icw 

i,  "  run,  las- 
gin'  on  the 


'■COME,   ETTR/CK;    YARROIV.    COME"    329 
Dorothy  went  as  din  :ted.    -  It's  mamma's  rain 
coat,"  she  said  a  moment  later,  returning  witli  it  in 
her  hand. 

"Aye,"  said  the  old  man,  apparently  relieved, 
"aye,  it's  naethin'  but  a  cloak -but  it  fashed  mc  to 
look  at  it;  I  thocht  it  lookit  like-like  yin  o'  thae 
crape  things,"  he  added  with  an  embarrassed  little 
laugh.  This  gave  me  a  queer  creepy  feeling  at  the 
time,  but  I  thought  little  more  about  it  then ;  it  came 
back  to  us  later  on,  however. 

Grandfather  went  to  bed  immediately,  and  Gordon 
and  I  were  not  long  behind  him  It  was  about  one 
o'clock,  I  think,  or  perhaps  a  little  later,  when  I  was 
wakened  from  my  sleep  by  a  strange  sound,  half 
groan,  half  cry.  I  went  out  at  once  into  the  hall 
and  soon  traced  the  s-gn  of  distress  to  grandfather's 
room.  The  old  man  was  raised  up  in  the  bed,  partly 
Mttmg ;  and  the  light  I  quickly  kindled  told  the  story 
in  a  flash  as  I  glanced  at  the  ashen  face. 

'Its  my  heart."  he  said  huskily  ;  -  ifs  yin  o'  thae 
spells  like  I  had  lang  syne.  It  winna'  be  lang  I'm 
dootin'."  ^' 

I  was  terrified,  for  I  thought  I  could  descry  the 
^tamp  of  death  already.     There  was  a  majestic  calm 
an  unwonted  stillness,  upon  the  old  man's  face      I 
called  Gordon  at  once;  he  evidently  shared  my  fear 
fc.  he  rushed  aivay  for  a  doctor.     It  was  but  a  few 


3)0 


THE   ATTIC    GUEST 


minutes  before  he  returned  with  the  physician,    'j 
latter  was  not  long  i'  telling  us  the  truth. 

"  It's    simply   a   total  collapse,"  lie  whispered 
Gordon  and  me  as  we  followed  him  out  into  tlic  Ii 
"  He  can  hardly  Hve  till  the  morning ;  yes,  its 
heart — a  case  of  syncope.     Don't  be  alarm  .J  if 
grows    delirious,  or    semi-delirious — they  often 
just  from  sheer  weakness.     That  roaming  about 
country,  to-day,  that  you  spoke  of — and  the  exc 
ment  of  it — have  probably  been  too  much  for  liini 

"  Shall  we  tell  him  ? "  asked  Gordon,  pale  ; 
trembling. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well.  Has  ho  eve 
thing  in  order  ? — his  will,  I  mean,  and  cveiyth 
like  that,  you  know  ?  " 

"  That  isn't  important,"  said  Gordon  ;  "  father  1 
little  to  will — yet  I  think  he  ought  to  be  told.  Bi 
cannot — I  couldn't  do  it.     Will  you  ?  " 

The  doctor  nodded  and  turned  slowly  towaids 
room.     We  did  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  a  mom 
later  grandfather  faintly  called  for  Gordon.     We  b 
went  into  tlie  chamber  of  death. 

"  Rax  me  my  wallet — you'll  find  it  in  the  ki 
said  the  old  man,  pointing  towards  a  trunk  in 
corner  of  the  room. 

Gordon  handed  him  a  large  leather  case  whic 
brief  search  revealed.     The  shaking  hand  fumble 


rS^TTr. 


^TK? 


:ian.    Tlic 

ispercd  tj 
to  tile  Iiail. 
■OS,  it's  his 
■111  -d  i:"  lij 

often  do, 
:  about  the 
the  excite- 
for  him." 

pale  and 

;  ho  every- 
evcry  tiling 

father  had 
)ld.     But  I 

owa.  ,.•  the 

a  moment 

\Vc  both 

the  kist, " 
ink  in  the 

se  whicli  a 
fumbled  a 


-COME,    E-TTRICK;    YARROIV,    COME'    jji 

moment  or  two  before  jt  withdrew  a  somewhat  bulky 
document.  ••  This  is  what  they  gi'cd  me  for  my 
hunncrd  pounds,"  he  said,  a  half-shamed  smile  com- 
ing' over  the  strong  features.  •<  They  ca'ed  tliem 
stocks,"  he  added,  "  stocks  in  a  mine,  ye  ken.  I  got 
the  shares  for  saxpence  each— an'  they  said  they  was 
awfu'  valuable— and  I  tuk  a'  they'd  gie  me  for  a  hun- 
ncrd pcmds."  Then  he  named  a  certain  mine  in 
Northern  Ontario,  and  I  thought  I  saw  the  faintest 
smile  on  Gordon's  face.  He  took  the  paper  from 
his  fatlier's  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  I  made  the  shares   ower  to  Helen,  lang  syne," 
the  old  man  said  humbly ;  "  gin  they  turn  oot  to  be 
worth  onythin',  they're  for  her.     I  didna'  ken  when 
I  micht  be  ta'en  awa'— an'  it's  aye  weel  to  be  ready." 
I  faltered  some  poor  words  of  thanks  winch  the 
sinking  man  did  not  seem  to  hear.     A  new,  strange 
litjht  came  into  his  eyes  as  we  waited  beside  his  bed. 
The  doctor  had  withdrawn  now,  powerless  to  do  more. 
"  Gang  an'  fetch  the  plaidie,"  he  suddenly  directed, 
"  the  yin  I  used  to  wear  at  hame  ;  an'  pit  it  aboot 
my  shoulders— the    nichfs    growin'    cauld.     An'    I 
canna'  f^nd  the  sheep,"  he  suddenly  cried,  half  start- 
ing in  his  bed  ;  "  I  hear  them  bleatin'  on  the  hills— 
but  I  canna'  find  them  a'." 

Then  his  eyes,  large  and  luminous  wiLli  the  light  ' 
of  the  unseen,  revolved  slowly  till  they  fixed  them- 


mm^. 


3^3  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

selves  on  Gordon.  "  Kneel  doon,  laddie,"  he  >.. 
gently,  yet  with  the  majesty  of  a  prophet,  ••  kn 
doon  beside  me," 

Gordon  knelt  low  by  the  bed  ;  one  trembling;  ha: 

outstretched,  was   laid  upon  his  head.     The  dyi 

eyes  looked  far  beyond  into  the  Unknown.    "  (i 

don,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  I  see  yir  mit! 

—she's  wi'  us   noo."     I  actually  started  and  loci 

up,  following  the   lifted   gaze.     "  An'  she's  loot 

doon  at  ye,  my  son — an'  the  love  is  fair  shiniii'  t 

her  een.     It  was  her  that  made  ye  a  minisior, 

laddie.     When  ye  was  a  wee  bit  bairn,  me  and 

gi'ed  ye  up  to  God  ;  an'   mony  a  night,  when 

didna'  ken,  she  bendit  by  yir  bed  an'  pleaded  wi'  ( 

to  mak  ye  a  minister — a  minister,  my  laddie,  u' 

Everlastin'  Gospel.     Div  ye  hear  me,  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  yes,"  and  Gordon  was  sobbin;^  n( 

"  yes,  I  hear,  father." 

"  An'  she  wants  >  :>  keep  the  troth,  my  : 
I'm  gaein'  to  her  noo— an'  I'll  tell  her  ye'll  be  a  r 
minister,  Gordon,  a  guid  minister  o'  the  New  Te 
ment,  leadin'  puir  sinners  to  the  Cross.  Wull  yc 
bid  me  tell  her  that,  my  laddie  ?  "  and  the  dying 
paused  for  answer. 

"  Yes,"  faltered  the  broken  man  beside  the  1 
"  yes,  father,  tell  mother  that." 

The   light   of  peace  stole   across  the  aged  f 


he  -,.ii(J 
It,  "  kiiccl 

iliiif;  liami, 
riic  tlying 
n.  •'  (iur- 
yir  mitlicr 
nd  looked 
L''s  lookin' 
ihiniii'  fiac 
inislcr,  my 
\c  and  her 
,  when  ye 
ed  \vi'  Gud 
Idic,  u'  the 
Jon?" 
tbini;  now ; 

li,  my  son. 
1  be  a  guid 
S^ew  Testa- 
VuU  yc  no' 
:  dying  lips 

le  the  bed, 

aged  face, 


"COME.  ETTRICK;    YARROW,    COME"    )^j 
"  I'm  ready  to  gang  noo,"  tlic  gentle  vi,icc  ucnt  on, 
••  an'  yir  mither's    bcckonin".     I'm   cumin',  niither ,' 
ril  be  ui'  ye  soon.     An'  Gordons  comin'  tae— an' 
Helen— an'  they'll  bring  baith  the  bairns  ui'  them." 
Then  his  eyes  turned  slowly  upon  Gordon.     "  I'm 
ready  to  gang  noo  in  peace,"  he  said  faintly—"  but 
tiiere's  yin  puir  lammie,"  a  troubled  expression  look- 
ing out  from  the  dying  eyes, "  there's  yin  puir  lammie 
that  I  canna'  find.     Oh,  my  son,"  the  voice  rising 
again  and  the  prophet-like  eyes  fastened  upon  Gor- 
don."  tak'  guid  care  o'  the  sheep-it's  an  awesome 
thing  to  be  an  unfaithfu'  shepherd  ;  tak'  care  o'  the 
sheep,  my  laddie— an'  where 's  Harold  ?     Is  the  bairn 
no'  hame  the  nicht  ?  " 

Then  swift  delirium  seemed  to  i.'i^e  him,  and  he 
rose  violently  where  he  '-^•,  rhe  last  eddy  of  life 
swirling  in  the  sullen  stream  of  death.     ••  I  canna' 
find  the  lamb  that'5  wannered,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice 
that  startled  us  ;  "  I  canna'  find  it.  an'  the  mirk  is 
fallin'.    Ettrick,   come  !_ho !    Yarrow.     Where   are 
ye.  Yarrow  ?     Find  it,  my  bonnie— find  it  and  bring 
"t  name."     Then   suddenly  the   dying   lips   pressed 
themselves  together  and  a  faint  whistle  floated  out  on 
the  midnight  air. 

I  seized  Gordon  by  the  shoulder.  "  Hush,"  said 
my  husband,  his  face  like  death  itself;  "  hush— he's 
calling  his  dogs." 


'  I   ,M:ih>'% 


■M%.m 


534 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


"  They're  brcakin',"  he  cried  despairinj^ly  ;  " 
sheep's  scatttriij' — they're  gaein'  to  wanner — win 
my  crook  ?  Gordon,  bide  yc  here,  my  laddie,  u, 
faither  turns  them  back.  Come,  lUlriek  —  Vai; 
come  !  "  and  a<;ain  tile  dread  whistle  floated  frun 
lips. 

\Vc  tried  to  comi)ose  him,  speaking  teniLr  \V( 
Slowly  the  look  of  peace  stole  back  upon  t!.c 
man's  face.  He  lay  with  e\  es  almost  clu 
"  They're  a'  hanie  noo,"  he  murmured  gently  ;  " 
they're  a'  safe  in  the  fold,  m)'  laddie,  an'  tiiey'll  »; 
oot  nae  muir  till  the  mirk  is  by — we  can  rot  : 
till  the  mornin',"  as  he  lay  back  in  calm  cor.tciit 

Suddenly  the  dj'ing  ej-es  were  lifted  to  !i;,-  , 
"  Lilt  me  a  psalm,"  he  murmured ;  "  we'll  <uv^  a 
we  gang  to  sleep;  but  dinna'  wake  }ir  iniliiLr- 
mither's  restin'." 

"  What  shall  I  sing,  father?"  Gordon  asked  in 
awesome  voice. 

"  A  psalm,  m\' — laddie,"  the  word.-^  coming'  1' 
and  slow  ;  "  ye  ken  the  yin  I'm  necdin' — there's  v 
yin  psalm  for  a  shepherd." 

Gordon  looked  at  me.  One  hand  was  in  hi>  fatlu 
the  other  was  outstretched  to  me,  and  I  knelt  be 
him.  Then  with  trembling  voicj,  my  clearer  r 
mingling  with  Gordon's  quivering  'r-iss,  we  siui^ 
gether  : 


*«c*i^y^-;  ^M.f^, , 


'■COMH.   ETTRICK:    Y^IKKOU',   COMir'     ^,, 

"TlicLonl^myshq.l.cul,  Ml  „ut  nani- 
He  makes  mk-  down  to  lu-," 

and  jiut  a.  uc  ucrc  ,„i,'  vay  in  tl.c  nuycstic  strain 

••  \;ca  timt.gh  I  walk  throng!,  .kMti.'s.h„k  vale 
\  ci  will  I  fear  iioiif  ill  " 

the  old  >hcphcTd  passed  Uirougli  the  valL-y  u  .ta  his 
Lord. 


iniiiTj  lair.t 


XXV 

A   SELECT  CONGREGATION 

GRANDFATHER    was    right.     The    C 
Shepherd  had  brought  Gordon  back, 
quite  at  a  loss  to  tell  just  how  the  ch; 
came  about,  or  what  its  actual  evidences  were- 
the  great  ministry  in  accomplishing  it  was  the  m 
try  of  sorrow.     Sorrow  and  love — that  ever  undiv 
pair — seemed  to  have  conspired  for  their  perfect  w 
It  began,  I  think,  with  the  crushing  weight  that 
upon  our  hearts  in  the  loss  of  Harold  and  in  all 
shame  and  anguish    connected  with  it.     That 
God's  way,  I  have  always  thought,  of  teaching 
don  how  much  a  father's  heart  can  suffer — and 
inevitable  outcome  of  that  is  the  Cross  itself  if 
our  Father  be.     How  could  His  love  escape  !< 
inevitable  pain,  any  more  than  ours?     Then,  bes 
grandfather's  home-going  had  been  a  second  ok 
tion  for  Gordon,  and  the  ministry  that  followed 
new  and  beautiful.     So  was  mine,  if  I  may  desij: 
my  poor  service  by  such  a  lofty  word  ;  for  n( 
knew  beyond  a  peradventure  that  God  hears  anc 


la^^ 


'mmm^:i^imi 


i^m^:^^ 


A  SELECT  CONGREGATION  ,„ 
swe.  pray..  I  verily  believe  grandfather  and  I 
prayed  him  back  between  us 

The  very  day  after  Gordon's  father  entered  into  rest 
I  was  s,.t,„g  ,„  u,e  gloaming,  thinking  of  the  li  e  Z 
nad  gone  from  us;  one  never  kno.s  ho.  d^aMs   ^ 
aged  ,fe,  t„  .he  silver-haired  presence  is  withd    .„ 
And  I  heard  something  that  started  my  heart  si„! 
heaven,vard  with  gratitude.  ^'"« 

Gordon  and  Dorothy  were  at  the  piano,  on  which 
our  daughter  now  loved  to  show  her  new-f^und  ski  ' 
A„d  softly  o„  the  evening  air  there  floated  out  t   „ 
f  TT       "'  '■^■""  "=  had  asked  her  to  pla 

«-™.-c:mb";:::o^::r"'^"^-''^ 

'Jesus  loves  me,  He  who  died 

Heaven's  gate  to  open  wide: 
He  will  wash  away  my  sin 
Let  His  little  child  come  in  '  " 

know  thaf  \.^  "    enough    to 

ow  that  he  was  teaching  our  little  ^W)  ,u 
and  blessed  Mn.f  •  ,  ^ "  ^^^  great 


338 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


theology,  asserting  once  again  its  holy  spell  upoi 
husband's  heart,  no  human  tongue  can  tell. 

The  months  went  by.  And  if  ever  a  man 
happy  in  his  work,  that  man  was  Gordon  Laiid. 
his  ivork,  I  say — for  our  home  lay  still  iindci 
shadow  of  its  great  and  bitter  sorrow.  After  (ni 
two  unsatisfactory  letters,  followed  by  a  final  or 
despairing  note,  no  word  had  come  from  I  in 
This  was  what  Gordon  had  feared.  Those  ok 
stand  out  before  me  now,  each  one  almost  separa 
its  pain,  like  sombre  mountain  peaks  robi^  !  in  c! 
I  know  all  about  the  anguish  of  those  who  roam  s 
desert  waste  searching  for  a  spring,  or  with  pari 
lips  upturned  to  the  unsoftening  skies.  The  sl( 
dying  hope,  the  burning  fever  whenever  I  heard 
postman's  knock,  the  sickening  disappointmenl 
surge  again  like  a  turgid  flood  about  me  when  '. 
low  my  mind  to  dwell  on  those  days  of  silence. 

Yet  if  I  suffered  I  believe  Gordon,  in  a  deep,  s 
way,  suffered  even  more.  My  heart  ached  mor( 
him  than  for  myself.  I  almost  came  to  clianqc 
mind  as  to  which  of  the  children  had  first  plac 
Gordon's  heart — it  seemed  to  cry  out  now  for  1 1: 
as  for  nothing  else  on  earth.  Although,  and  I  \ 
it  gladly  for  the  comfort  of  some  like  stricken  i 
ail  this  wo'-ked  its  gracious  ministry  upon  his  trou 


w 


r-^ 


.^1 


A   SELECT   CONGREGATION     ^39 
life.    Embattled  long  as  his  spirit  had  been  with  in- 
ward misgiving  and  silent  doubt,  this  last  dark  mystery 
would  have  wrought  sore  havoc.  I  cannot  but  believe 
had  ,t  not  been  so  terrible.     Its  very  fierceness  of  at- 
tack drove  him  in  upou  .neLord  whom  he  had  found 
afresh ;  and  his  soul  found  its  comfort  in  simplicity  of 
faith  and  childlike  urgency  of  prayer.     The  songs  we 
shall  sing  in  the  Yonderland  shall  give  their  chiefest 
praise  for  the  burdens  that  were  too  heavy  to  be 
borne  alone. 

I  have  spoken  of  Gordon's  urgency  of  prayer.  It 
was  lie,  not  I.  who  suggested  that  we  should  have  a 
set  time,  every  morning,  when  we  should  pray  for 
not  ing  else  but  this-that  Harold  might  be  brought 
back  to  us.     And   it  was  Gordon,  not  I,  who  led 

Dorothy  to  include  in  her  evening  prayer  the  plea 
that  God  would  bring  her  brother  home. 

Ves,  I  think  sometimes  that  the  great  Father  led 
-  husband  into  the  wilderness  for  this  very  purpose. 

0  make  h.m  a  minister  after  His  own  heart.  I  said 
^0  h.m  once,  just  about  the  time  we  first  began  to 
reahze  we  weren't  going  to  hear  from  Harold  • 

"All  this  won't  affect  your  life-work,  will  it 
-rdon-your  preaching.  I  mean  ?  "  for  it  was  only' 
-^^^"•al.  after  all  that  had  transpired,  that  I  should 
'■ave  some  secret  misgivings. 

H.S  answer  lingers  with  me  like  a  chime  of  bells,, 


^40 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


though  it  came  in  tones  subdued  and  low : 
he  said ;  "  no — I'm  going  to  preach  now  to 
hearts." 

"  Then  you'll  never  lack  a  congregation,  i 
ling,"  was  the  response  I  made ;  and  I  have 
thought  it  was  given  me  in  that  hour  what  tc 


m 


i^a 


XXVI 
THE  NEiVS  A    BROKER   BROUGHT 

NOR    did   the   congregation   fail   to   come. 
Gordon  had  wonderful  powers,  as  every- 
body must  know  by  this  time— he  had 
always  had   them-and   now  he  had   a   wonderful 
message.     His  heart,  and  not  his  brain,  was  now  the 
source  of  his  splendid  sermons;  a  wounded  heart  at 
that-and  it  is  from  the  crushed  and  broken  flower 
that  the  sweetest  perfume  breathes.     So  it  was  no 
wonder  that  his  humble  pulpit  became  like  a  golden 
fount  to  parched  and  thirsty  souls  ;  and  the  pathway 
trodden  by  the  throng  that  pressed  about  it  became 
ever  more  deep  and  wide. 

People  came  to  Gordon's  little  church  from  every 
part  of  Hertford.  I  did  not  wonder  at  this,  for  rich 
and  poor  alike  will  crowd  about  a  spring ;  but  little 
by  little  it  became  evident  that  not  a  few  of  our  wor- 
shippers were  from  Gordon's  old  congregation  in  St. 
Andrew's.  It's  wonderful  how  everybody  loves  a 
hero-especially  if  the  hero  doesn't  know  he's  one. 
I  was  the  first  to  notice  this  ;  or.  at  least,  the  first  to 
say  anything  about  it.     Gordon   gave  no  sign  of 

341 


&^iS^Wl^ 


342 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


exultation,  but  I  knew  it  filled  his  heart  tu  overil 
ing.  Strangely  enough,  one  of  those  who  b)-  am 
were  most  regular  in  attendance  was  Mr.  AM 
himself,  his  first  appearance  almost  strikin;^'  Cw: 
dumb.  But  I  always  thought  he  really  b.-m 
esteem  my  husband  that  night  Gordon  dealt .-.)  u 
fully  with  him.  Besides,  he  had  lost  his  own  so 
by  the  more  kindly  way  of  death— and  I  attnbu 
it  partly,  too,  to  that.     It  matters  not. 

This  feature  of  our  congregation— the  attcnda 
of  St  Andrew's  folk,  I  mean — became  so  j 
nounced  at  last  that  it  began  to  be  rumoured  ab 
the  city  that  many  of  them  would  like  to  call  tl 
old  minister  back  again,  if  he  would  return  to  tl 
denomination.  I  spoke  of  it  once  to  Gordon- 
heart  could  not  conceal  its  eagerness — but  he  recer 
it  after  such  a  fashion  that  I  mentioned  it  no  m< 
Not  then,  at  least.  But  I'm  afraid  I  hoped  c 
longed ;  for  I  was  born  a  woman,  and  pride  died  h, 
within  me. 

Our  means  were  still  as  meagre,  our  struggle 
sore  as  ever.  Besides— and  how  pitiful  was  t 
effort — we  were  trying  in  a  poor  helpless  way  to  ?a 
a  little  for  the  payment  of  Harold's  debt ;  we  tried 
set  aside  just  so  much  as  his  schooling  would  ha 
cost,  if  he  had  never  left  us.  Every  penny  thus  la 
away  had  our  hearts'  blood  upon  it ;  and  was,  I  dou 


w^imm 


■THE  NEIVS  A  BROKER  BROUGHT      ^43 

not,  precious  in  His  sight  who  gave  those  two  mites 
the,.'  fame. 

Things  were  at  their  very  darkest  along  this  hue 
about   four  or  five  months  after  Harold  went  away 
And    .t    was    just    then   something  happened   that 
s  ou-ed  conclusively  which  way  the  ruHng  passion 
of  (jordon  s  heart  was  turned. 

I  was  almost  weeping  over  my  accounts  that  night 
These  I  kept  in  a  ridiculously  large  scribbling  book 
markmg  down  the  smallest  item  of  expenditure  •  for 
Gordon  entrusted  our  finances  to  my  hands,  if  so 
elaborate  a  term  may  be  devoted  to  so  scanty  an 
exchequer.     Generally   I   brought   the  account  out 
pretty  even  at  the  close  of  every  week-.,  sundries  " 
-ere  a  great  help  towards  this  happy  end.     But  this 
parfcular    night    everything   seemed   all   .-through 
other,     to  quote  a  favourite  phrase  of  grandfather's. 
^oth.^g  was  clear  except  that  there  was  a  deficit- 
and  that  was  dreadfully  evident ;  but  even  the  all- 
arijustmg  sundries  could  not  show  just  how  or  whence 
It  came. 

So  there  we  s.t,  I  with  the  big  .cribbhns  book 
Wore  ™e,  a  freshly  sharpened  pencil  in  n,y  hand,  a 

™'>'ly  I  ra  afraid,  at  the  plaintive  statement  of 
receipts  and  expenditure. 
"  Never  mind,  Helen,"  Gordon  said,  "  youVe  done 


i- 
r 


344 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


the  best  you  can — and  I  know  you've  made  ever}- 
lar  go  as  far  as  any  woman  in  the  world  could 
Don't  bother  any  more  about  it — charge  that  dt 
v  to  profit  and  loss  and  call  it  square." 

"  But  it's  nothing  to  laugh  about,"  I  ansui 
gloomily  ;  "  we're  going  behind,  Gordon — ^justas 
as  anything,  we're  going  behind." 

"  Only  financially,"  he  said  lightly  ;  "  we're  g( 
ahead  other  ways,  my  dear." 

"  But  that's  a  lot,"  I  protested. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  much  to  me,"  Gordon  rep 
the  lightness  all  vanished  now. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  said,  looking  up  a  1 
testily,  I  fear. 

"  Oh,  only  this ;  when  anybody  has  a  sorro\ 
much  greater — like  ours — financial  troubles  d 
amount  to  much.  I  want  Harold — oh,  Helei 
want  our  boy  back  again,"  with  which  he  broke 
strong  man  though  he  was,  into  such  a  storm  of 
ing  as  would  have  done  credit  to  the  tearfulles 
women. 

This  puzzled,  almost  alarmed,  me.  Indeed,  I 
beginning  to  fear,  and  not  without  more  reaj 
than  one,  that  the  long  tension  of  grief  and  dii 
pointment  were  proving  too  much  for  Gordon's 
tense  and  sensitive  nature.  I  looked  at  him  a  : 
ment  as  he  sat  before  me  with  his  head  bowed  in 


Wr^^v 


',--..1.,— T,r  I 


THE  NEIVS  A  BROKER  BROUGHT  345 
hands;  then  I  did  what  I  believe  was  the  very  wisest 
thing-I  comforted  him  for  a  little  as  best  I  could  in 
my  woman's  way,  though  my  heart  was  just  as  heavy 
as  his  own  ;  then  I  said  we  really  must  go  on  with  our 
accounts.  And  in  a  minute  or  two  we  were  both 
bended  once  again  above  the  big  scribbling  book, 
going  into  every  item  as  carefully  as  though  we  were 
auditing  the  books  of  the  Bank  of  England. 

Suddenly,  just  as  I  was  declaring  that  the  butcher 
must  have  sent  that  same  bill  twice,  a  ring  came  to 
the  door.  I  was  glad.  Gordon  answered  the  sum- 
mons, as  he  always  did  at  night.  And.  to  my  amaze- 
ment, our  visitor  turned  out  to  be  a  Mr.  Bradwin,  one 
of  the  well-known  brokers  of  Hertford,  and  a 
prominent  member  of  our  old  congregation  in  St. 
Andrew's. 

"  Excuse  my  calling  at  this  time  of  night.  Dr. 
Laird."  he  apologized,  after  he  was  seated  and  1  i^v: 
words  of  greeting  had  passed  between  us ;  "  but  the 
fact  is  I've  just  received  some  news  that  I  think  you'll 
find  decidedlv  interesting  "_I  cannot  be  positive, 
but  I  reahy  thinK  he  glanced  about  the  shabbily 
furnished  room  as  he  spoke-"  and  I  couldn't  wait 
till  to-morrow  to  tell  you." 

"  I  hope  it's  good  news.  Mr.  Bradwin,"  said  Gor- 
don, a  very  faint  smile  playing  on  his  face. 

My  impulsive  nature  got  the  better  of  my  jud-  - 


i^ 


346 


THE   A77IC  GUEST 


t: 


ment.  "  Is  it  a'-.^ut  St.  Andrew's,  Mr.  liraduir 
asked  in  an  eager  voice,  my  eyes  leaping  Irui 
face  to  Gordon's. 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  replied  our  caller,  and  i.iy  eye 
"  But  it's   good    news  for  all  that — dccidcti'y 
news,  I  should  say.     It's  about  somelliiiif;  ;i 
more  important — to  you, at  least;  something  ih; 
more  to  do  with  your  happiness,  I  fancy." 

Gordon  sprang  to  his  feet  and  his  voice  ran 
like  a  pistol-shot :     "  It's  about  Harold,  sir — it> ; 
our  boy ! "     He  was  standing  in  front  of  Mr. 
win  now,  his  cheeks  like  snow,  his  eyes  like  fire 
was   almost  awful   to  see  him.    "  Tiiank  God 
cried,  his  voice  half  a  laugh  and  half  a  cry  ;  "  y 
heard  where  he  is,  haven't  you  ? — and  you've 
to  tell  us.     Why  didn't  we  think  of  it  before,  II 
— W'"  might    have  known  that  was  the  news 
cor     I't  wait.     Tell  me,  sir — tell  us  both,"  and 
ej    .rness  he  bent  over  and  took  the  astonished 
by  the  shoulders. 

A  moment  later  his  withdrawn  hands  were  cl; 
upon  his  eyes  with  a  gesture  of  inexpressible 
and  he  was  groping  his  way  to  a  chair.  Xo 
had  been  uttered ;  but  the  denial  spoke  frorr 
Bradwin's  face,  or  else  he  shook  his  head  in 
avowal — I  could  not  see,  but  I  knew  thai 
hope    glowing    a    moment  since  in  Gordon's 


•THE  NEIVS  A  BROKER  BROUGHT      347 

was  in  a.hcs    now.     Our  v...turs  new.  wa«  not  of 
Harold. 

"I'm  so  sorry."  Mr.  Bradwin  began  confusedly 
'•  I  lorgot  all  about  that-about  ycr  son  ;  and  I 
really  almost  hate  now  to  tell  you  what  I  was  so 
anxious  to  tell  a  httle  while  ago.  Hut  it's  good  news, 
at  any  rate— even  if  its  not  the  best."  Having  said 
tliis  he  paused,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
auditors. 

"  \\-liat  is  it.  Mr.  Bradwin  ?  "  I  asked,  not  a  little 
curious. 

"  It's  about  some  stocks-some  shares."  replied  the 
broker,  feeling  a  little  more  at  ease  w.th  the  familiar 
^vords;  "such  assets-stocks,  I  mean,  especially  mi- 
mng  stocks-are  always  springing  little  surprises  on 
the  people  that  hold  them.     Both  ways.  Mrs.  Laird 
you  kuo.v-both  good  and  bad,"  as  he  smiled,  a  little' 
artihoally  I  thought,  at  me.     <■  But  in  tins  case  I'm 
g.aJ  to  be  able  to  say  the  surprise  is  a  pleasant  one 
-a  decidedly  pleasant  one,  Mrs.  Laird ;  indeed,  un- 
'■-nnonly  so.  I  should  say.     Quite  bevond  the  or- 
t^'^iJiy.  as  I  think  yr  jM  agree." 

I  .«>tammcred  out  omething  ^bout  my  ignorance  of 
^'1  such  matters.  Gordon  said  nothing,  for  interest 
was  now  dead  u."un  him. 

"Vou    are   aware,    of    course,"    Mr.    Bradwin   r^- 
^"^^ed,  ..  you're  aware.  Mrs.  Laird,  that  the  shares 


i 


348  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

are   in  your   name  ?— they  were  transferred  to  j 
by    Mr.    Laird,   \our   husband's    father,   before 
death." 

"  Oh,"  I  e.vclaimed,  beginning  to  remember;"  3 
mean  those  pap'  rs  grandfather  gave  us  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  madam — at  least,  I  presume  \\( 
thinking  of  the  same  thing.  Your  father-in-lau 
vested  five  hundred  dollars,  a  hundred  pounds  rati 
in  the  mine — and  they've  just  struck  a  fine  vcir 
silver — the  richest  yet  discovered  in  New  Onta 
there's  no  doubt  of  that  The  old  gentleman  ^ot 
shares  for  a  song — about  ten  cents  each.  {  bcliev 
and  now  they've  jumped  to  an  almost  fabulous  pr 
So  the  profit  is  tremendous,"  as  Mr.  Bradwm  d 
his  chair  close  up  to  mine,  all  embarrassment  v 
ished  now. 

"  How  much  are  they  worth?"  I  asked  with  fe 
nine  precipitancy. 

Mr  Brad  win  drew  a  pencil  from  his  pocket 
reached  over  to  the  t  ible  h)i  a  piece  of  paper, 
did  seem  funn\-  that  the  scrap  he  picked  up  and 
gan  to  cover  with  figures  was  that  wretched  butcli 
bill  that  had  been  giving  Gordon  and  me  so  m 
trouble  a  few  miuutes  before. 

"  Surely  I've  made  a  mistake  '  he  said  after  a  1 
silence;  "  it  seems  an  incredibly  large  amount. 
that  must  be  it,"  drawing  in  his  breath  in  an  d 


i**: 


I 


..Pai  ^'  ^ 


THE  NEIL'S  A  BROKER  BROUGHT      j„ 
stricken  kind  of  way  af,„  ho  had  rcvisc.l  ,„.  reckon- 

'""" '7' "■'"•■'■-»■•■>-.  your  share,  arc  w„r,h 

;"'■""";■">'''■"-• -"P"ta.,o„,"  and  he  handed 
...=  creasy  butcher's  bill,  .ransrigured  and  ,i,.,fi„, 

..ow,ov„,o  my  shaking  hand.    "  r„  ,,„„„,„,,.„^, 
.ojfl^r  you  . ha.  much,  madam,  r.  every  share  you 

I  don',  ,hink  I  heard  him.     My  n«  move  was  ,o 

Gordons  desk  ,„  ,he  corner,  a  great  .vomanl.ke  fe.-,r 

se..,ng  me  lest  the  precious  papers  had  been  '    •  or 

■at  they  might  reveal  something  to  disturb  th:      '  ry 

.rean,.,  fumble,!  in  one  of  the  drawers;  they  .ere 
ere:      drew  them  forth.     Ves,  i,  .as  Just  as  tl,e 
-ro  or  had  assured  me.    Tl,..  number  of  shares  was 
soplam  that  he  who  ran  might  read 

■•Hold  onto  those  certificates,  M,,.Ui,d.'-,,hink 
lurd  Mr.  liradwm  say  ;  ■•  there's  a  heap  o,  In,,,,, 
ne'i  ,n  them."    Bnt  I  „,i,?  „„    ..      ■  " 

a   I  m„    J  ^  attent,on  to  his  words 

^  I  moved  over,  my  eyes  so  cloudy  I  could  hardly 
e  ,  to  where  my  husband  -,.  ill  .,at  i„  silence.     I  cared 

;nS  that  a  stranger  ,vas  ,ook,„g  on,  .bought  o 
nK,.emembcred  „o.,„„g  tut  the  Ion,  years  of 

r  Gordon  had  carried  o„  his  work  .0  bravely.     I 
;'--yselfmto  his  arms,  ,,,yw.hole  frame  Shaken 

^'^Pedl>.m  about  the  neck,  the  precious  documents 


350  7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 

crushed  in  my  fevered  grasp  as  1  drew  the  yielc 
head  gently  down  upon  my  bosom,  laltcrinj;  ou 
best  I  could  the  tidings  that  our  poverty  wa.  en 
and  our  days  of  darkness  past  and  gone.  And  I 
him  how  I  loved  him  for  all  the  splendid  coura<;L 
silent  self-denial  that  he  would  never  need  to  ps  ac 

more. 

'<  I'd  advise  you  not  to  sell  outright,  madam— tl 

my  advice  to  you  au  a  friend,"  the  broker'^  v. ice 

nounced  in  a  monotone.     I  looked  up  a  nioinci 

the  man's  back  was  turned;  (wherefore  I  have  t!iui 

more  kindly  of  brokers  ever  since).     "  Your  best 

will  be  to  sell  a  certain  amount— and  retain  an  u 

est ;  an  interest,  Mrs.  Laird.     They're  going  a! 

to  develop  the  mine— and  then  you're  sure  of  I 

Mrs.  Laird.     And  I— I  congratulate  you,  tnadan 

I  fear  my  response  was  very  scant,  if  indeed 

came  at  all.     At  any  rate,  Mr.  Bradwin  withdr 

minute  or  two  later,  announcing  his  purpose  t 

turn  the  following  day. 

But  it  could  not  have  been  more  than  a  niinu 
two  after  his  departure  when  we  heard  the  foot! 
some  one  ascending  the  steps  to  the  door. 
must  be  coming  back,"  I  said  ;  "  I  suppose  he' 
gotten  something." 

•«  I  don't  think  it's   a  man's  step,"  said  Gur 
"  it's  a  boy,  if  I'm  not  mistaken." 


f^w'  > "  vT  :  '.Jf '    i'vk.m  ^'i'«-f*rT».  mf' 


THE  NEWS  A  BROKER  BROUGHT      y,i 
His  surmise  was  correct.     A  boy  it  ^vas,  and  a  very 
agitated  and  urgent  boy  at  that.     Ho  was  ra-^ged  too 
"  I  want  you  to  come  with  me,"  the  lad  broke  oui 
as  SCO.  as  he  was  admitted,  fixing  his  earnest  gaze 
on  Gordon.     -  I  was  at  Bethany  Sundav-schoul  last 
bunday-and  I  know  you-and  I  want  you  to  come 
hon.e  with  me  quick,"  twirling  his  battered  hat  in  his 
hand  as  he  spoke. 

"  Whafs   your  name,  my  boy  ? "  asked  Gordon, 
moving  over  to  him. 

"  Its  Tim-Tim  Rayfield-an'  we  live  on  Finner's 
Flats,  •  naming  the  most  notorious  section  of  the  city 
part  of  it  bordering  on  Gordon's  parish. 

"Do  yor    always  attend  Bethany.  Tim?"  asked 
Gordon,  smiling  down  at  the  desperately  earnest  face 

"^o.  sir.  wasn't  there  only  once."  answered  the 

ooy ;. .but  I  learned  a  lot-an' won't  you  come,  sir? 
There  amt  no  time  to  lose.  My  father's  dyin'.  sir 
-an  I  want  you  to  get  him  in." 

"What?  "and  Gordon's  face  was  full  of  amaze. 
'"ent .  ..  in  where  ?-where  do  you  want  me  to  get 
your  father  in  ?-you  mean  the  hospital,  do  you.  my* 

"No.sir-into  heaven.     That's  what  the  teacher 
3a.d  about  it  last  Sunday-about  when  folks  was 
y.n  ~an'   how    they   get  'em   in.     An'  dad,   he's 
<3yin-an  I  want  you  to  get  him  in." 


352 


7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


The  face  of  the  poor  ignorant  child  was  aglow 
its  eagerness  of  hope  and  fear.  The  signs  of  po\ 
and  neglect  were  everywhere  about  him,  and  th 
nourished  frame  told  how  severe  had  life's  stru 
been  to  him.  But  the  glint  of  the  Eternal  wa 
the  grimy  face,  upturned  to  Gordon  in  wistful 
treaty.  His  plea  was  the  plea  of  love,  his  prayci 
prayer  of  faith  ;  and  the  scene  could  not  have  I 
more  holy  if  some  white-robed  priest  had  beer 
terceding  before  the  Throne. 

Gordon's  arms  went  out  impulsively  towards 

lad  ;  I  beHeve  he  put  them  a  moment  about  his  n 

"  Yes,  my  boy,"  he  said  in  an  unsteady  vo 

"yes,  I'll  go.     And  we'll  get  your  father  in— 

please  God,  we'll  get  him  in." 

They  went  out  together  into  the  darkness,  the 
leading  the  way  with  such  haste  as  stirs  the  fee 
those  who  race  with  death.     And  I  was  left  ali 
the  little  table  still  littered  with  the  relics  of 
financial  conference.     The  stainful  butcher's  bill 
on  top   of  all — and   the   magic  document,  with 
story  of  our  shares,  was   still  held   tightly  in 
hand. 

I  did  not  open  it  again  ;  but  I  sat  long  lookinj 
it — and  it  struck  me  even  then  hov  helpless  it  wa 
aid  in  the  real  tragedies  of  life. 


XXVII 

HAVE  asked  Gordon  to  wr,>,  ^ 
expene„cesof,ha.„,gh;Tl  ""'"'^ 

<!«'  had  so  n,uch  to  do  w/  ht  "'"  ""^  •""■ 

'-  -  -uch  .or.  ab,e    hlr        '"^"^^  ^^-^O" 
peat  events  ivas  concern.r.  "  °"'  °'  "fe'' 

told.  """'^"^<''  '■>  'ell  it  as  It  should  be 

When  I  asked  him  tn       j 
-=  -"hestoo^of  thLT'f'  ""  ""y~'° 
•-"yhad  to  .ell  h.-.?!"";:^       """-'""'- 
"«.  0^  a  large  portion  IT  rd7°""'' """■- 
"■'"■'-     But  I  don't  think  g1  '"  ""''  '"^ 

'-^  -neant  for  other  ey^th  T"  ""  ""P'^'"'  " 

-^atedearones-anZe  ;.rr^^°"^-"»- 
•»>■  life  will  be  when  n,v  h  T.  ^"'^'  ""'"'"'^  "f 
-"eed,  it  Shan  e  Jl^CeT      '  "='  ""^  ^-''-  ''• 

"- is  Gordon's  st^;:^:-"^-'- 
"■™'e  it  out  hin«elf-I  toW  h  '       "'^    '  '"''  ''  "= 
--•ord,sohesaidhe.i":rer^'^---«> 

353 


354  THE   A7T1C   GUEST 

Foreword : 

I  am  writing  this,  so  personal  though  it  sei 
because  Helen  wants  it.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
children's  mother,  their  father  never  could  have  t 
what  he  is  now  about  to  write.  Some  time,  perh 
long  after  my  poor  day's  work  is  done,  tlicy  n 
read  this  page  from  the  volume  of  their  father'^  '. 
May  the  same  grace  enrich,  the  same  truth  emu 
their  youthful  lives  :  "  The  angel  that  red'^^mcd 
from  all  evil  bless "  them  both,  as  a  father's 
prayed  long  ago. 


When  little  Tim  Rayfield  told  me  he  wanted 
to  "  get  his  father  in,"  I  knew  one  of  the  crucial  i 
ments  of  my  life  had  come.  Indeed,  I  felt  the  h 
was  \lmost  as  critical  for  me  as  for  Tim's  d\ 
father.  Why,  I  need  not  state  at  length.  l?ut  j 
haps  I  ought  to  say  this  much,  that  I  felt  a  new  st. 
of  power  as  I  pressed  on  through  the  night  v 
Tim's  grimy  hand  in  mine.  1  use  the  word  "  nc 
advisedly — for  I  must  tell,  no  matter  whose  eye  r 
yet  read  the  confession,  that,  for  some  years  befwi 
had  shrunk  from  such  scenes  as  these  in  helplessr 
and  despair  ;  I  had  lost  the  joy  of  the  viiraculon 
my  ministry  ;  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  always  ti 
to  be  faithful  to  ever>'  dut>',  but  little  by  little 


^^  Jf.:•■^^■•■lf1P«;.1i^ 


»^HERE  GUS   CAST  ANCHOR      ,,, 

Uioryan,  the  pouer  of  a  Supernatural  Gospel  had 
slipped  away  from  me. 

I  have  seen  people  smile  when  I  use  the  word 
;■  '"P-"-'--l  ••  as  the  only  fitting  term  to  charaeter- 
-  a  gospel.     But  such  as  smile  have  very  smiling 
"s.    The  word-and  all  that  is  behind  the  word- 
has  a  very  d,fferent  meaning  when  laughter  is  ban- 
-.ed  from  the  lips,  when  the  voice  of  joy  i,  hushed, 
"hen  some   fateful   sorrow  falls   and  we   can   only 
stumble  on  through  the  encircling  gloom.    Such  an 
hour  came  to  me,  filled  with  a  bitterness  worse  than 

eat  ,.t  was  then  1  found  my  Lord  anew.  When 
the  b,lio>vs  overswep.  and  whelmed  me  I  learned  to 
pray;  when  the  shadows  closed  in  about  me  I  de- 
«r,od  the  Uiv.„e  Friend  among  them  ;  when  I  lost 
y  boy,  and  my  father-heart  was  broken,  I  learned 
^f^One  who  gave  His  own  Son,  His   well-beloved 

Let    me   revi.e   my   words.     It   was   not        who 
"found   my    Lord"-    hi,f    ii.,   r 
HOcn-and  they  sought  mc  hand  in  hand 

iJ.J'rV'V""''"  """  ^""'  ^'"""S   f™™  '.is 
*-c,dye  see  that  light  in  the  window-that  up- 

I  ^au'.  and  in  a  moment  we  u-ere  climbing  a  de- 
-r-    --i..     Groping  our  way  along  an  unlighted 


356 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


r    I 


passage,  my  guide,  still  clinging  to  my  hand,  i 
sharply  into  the  squalid  home.  It  consiste 
dently  of  two  rooms,  the  inner  of  which  con 
the  couch  whereon  lay  Tim's  sinking  father. 

The  boy  never  stopped  till  he  had  led  mc 
very  edge  of  the  bed.  A  few  tattered 
wrapped  the  form  of  the  dying  man.  Hi 
already  conforming  to  the  stamp  of  death,  tc 
story  of  a  lifetime's  sin.  Nobody  could  look 
it  without  reading  there  the  tokens  of  a  life  c 
sion  and  excess.  The  heavy  eyes  looked  up  si 
into  my  face  as  I  stood  above  him. 

"  It's  the  preacher,  Gus — don't,"  pleaded  a  \ 
who  bent  above  him ;  for  his  lips  were  framing 
word  she  evidently  feared  my  ears  would 
*•  Don't,  Gus — he's  goin'  to  help  you  if  he  can 
fetched  him — he's  the  preacher  from  the  Hoik 
Tim  seen  him  last  Sunday." 

The  man's  set  features  seemed  to  relax  a  litt 
took  his  hand.  I  hesitated  as  to  how  I  shoui 
begin — but  he  opened  the  wtkx  himself. 

"  I'm  all  ready  for  sea,  boss,"  he  broke  out 
gasping  laugh  ;  "  last  voyage,  looks  like — an'  n 
don't  know  the  port.     But  I've  got  my  papers, 
— I've  got  my  papers,  an'  I'll  have  to  sail." 

"  Don't  mind  him,  sir,"  his  wife  said  in  a  1 
voice ;  "  he's  an  old  sailor,  you  see — only  two 


:^:?mr^f?: 


iVHERE  GUS  CAST  ANCHOR  357 
since  he  quit  the  sea  and  come  here  to  live  He  got 
his  left  foot  hurt_an'  that's  whafs  killin'  him  now- 
he's  got  gangarene,  sir." 

'•  Coin'  to  be  a  dirty  night,  boss,  by  the  looks  o' 

things,"  the  dying  tar  broke  in  with  patiful  bravado  ■ 

"  tne  wind's  risin',  ain't  it-better  shorten  sail,  eh  ?  "' 

I  put   my   face   close  to  his.     "  Do  you  want  a 

pilot,  my  friend  ?  "  I  asked  him  low. 

"Don't  call  me  that."  he  retorted  gruffly ;-.  call 
me  mate-I   was  mate  on  the  Dolphin  when  that 
dam  crowbar  fell  on  my  foot." 
"  Don't  you  want  a  pilot,  mate  ?  "  I  asked  a^ain 
"Where  to    take  me?"  looking  far  through%he 
window  into  the  dark. 
"  To  the  harbour."  I  answered  softly. 
"  I  don't  know  where  it  is." 
"  He  knows." 

"Say."  and  the  eyes  were  now  fixed  very  intently 
on  me;   "I'm   goin'  to  ask  ye  a  question.     An'  I 
want  an  answer  straight-no  tackin'  or  manceuvrin' 
-dye  think  I'm  dyin',  Cap'n  ?" 
"  Yes,"  I  answered  ; '«  yes.  you're  dying,  sir  " 
"Then  get  him  in."  broke  out  poor  Tim  with  a 
P'teous  wail  as  he  presented  himself  in  front  of  me 
and  looked    up  into  my  face;  "please  get  him  in 
quick,  afore  he  dies-thafs  what  I  fetched  you  for, 
sir— oh,  please  get  him  in." 


-m:-^v^^'^^.'m,:^^^'mm^. 


35S 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


I  had  seen  the  day  when    I  almost  feared  I 
alone   with    a  dying  man.     VVliat   I  had  to  sa 
those  days,  could  be  as  well  said  to  others  as  t') 
But   now,  as    Tim    besought  me,  and  as  his  I 
looked    up  with    eyes    in    which   a   yearning 
was  already  to  be  seen,  I  felt  that  no  others 
be    near    while  I   sought   to   help  his  soul, 
asked  Tim  and  his  mother  if  they  would  withdr: 
the  adjoining  room — they  should  be  called,  I  Sci 
the  summons  came  apace. 

Then  I  closed  ihe  door — for  this  hour  had  i 
than  bridal  holiness — and  I  gave  myself  in  love  t( 
dying  soul.  The  mock  heroism,  the  banter,  fc 
from  him  like  a  garment,  for  I  think  he  saw  I  bcli 
in  God.  I  need  not  tell,  must  not  reveal,  all  he 
closed  to  me  from  the  dark  storehouse  of  a  \  c 
past.  But  I  met  him  and  his  crimson  sins,  am 
accusing  conscience — I  met  them  all.  and  at  c 
turn,  with  the  Cross  of  the  Lord  Jesus  and  wiih  tht 
atoning  f.ace  of  God.  How  I  gloried  in  that 
in  the  great  evangel!  And  how  there  rolled  a 
me,  with  tides  ample  hke  t  ocean's,  the  the 
of  the  magnitude  and  infinitude,  f  the  love  of  Cli 
And  how — oh,  blessed  memory  to  my  long  bi 
guered  soul — I  witnessed  the  ancient  miracle  with 
marvelling  anew  at  the  greatness  and  glory  of  the  i 
pel,  scorning  with  high  contempt  all  that  would  i 


oared  ti>  Lc 
J  to  say,  :n 
rs  as  t')  Iiin: 
LS  hib  latlic 
rning  hop. 
othci-i  nil;-' 
soul.  So  I 
withdraw  t  > 
cd,  I  -said, ;: 

if  had  more 
I  love  to  th.; 
.nter,  fell  ot* 
w  I  bclieveii 
,1,  all  he  di^- 

o(  a  V  abteu 
>ins,  and  his 
m\  at  ever}' 
ivilli  the  all- 
in  that  hour 
rolled  about 
the  thought 
e  of  Christ! 

long  belea- 
:le  with  joy, 

of  the  Gos- 
would  raise 


U'HERE  a  US  CAST  ANCHOR  ^59 
its  feeble  hand  against  such  power  as  may  be  seen 
wherever  a  sinful  soul  meets  with  the  pardoning 
Lord ! 

Over  and  over  again  I  read  to  him  from  the  third 
of  John:  "  God  so  loved  tne  world  that  He  gave  His 
only  begotten  son."  its  richness  growing  on  my  own 
soul  as  well  as  his. 

"  Let  me  see  that,"  said  the  dying  mate ;  '<  I  want 
to  look  at  it— every  cap'n  reads  the  log  himself." 

I  gave  him  the  book  and  held  the  lamp  above  him. 

"  Vc  haven't  got  another  of  them,  have  ye,  sir  ?  "  he 
asked  wistfully. 

"Of  what.>"  said  L 

"  Of  this  here  book_I  want  to  read  it  when  you're 
gone;  or  Tim— Tim  could  read  it  to  me." 

I  told  him,  of  course,  that  I  would  leave  tlie  book. 

"  Turn  down  the  page-mark  the  place,"  he  said, 
l^andnig  n,e  the  volume.  "  I'm  afcared  I'd  soon  be' 
dnfti.i' again  if  we  lost  it." 

"I'll  mark  some  other  passages  too,"  I  suggested, 
"some  almost  equally  beautiful." 

"  That  there  one's  enough,  he  said,  sinking  back 
faintly  on  his  pillow. 

^  ^  sang  him  a  hymn,  the  one  that  dying  men  should 
^'^vays  hear;  and  then  I  had  a  little  prayer  with  him. 
H^s  hands  were  folded  and  his  eyes  were  closed. 
^\nen  I  rose  from  my  knees  he  whispered  something 


360 


7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


that  I  shall  treasure  while  memory  lasts.  H 
needed  only  a  glance  to  see  that  the  end  was 
I  opened  the  door  to  call  his  wife  and  child  ba 
him. 

"  Did  you  get  him  in,  sir — did  you  get  my  I 
in?"  were  the  first  words  that  greeted  me  ai 
Tim's  eyes  leaped  to  mine. 

"  Yes,  my  boy — yes,  please  God,  your  fatlu 
get  in,"  though  I  could  hardly  speak  for  the 
that  choked  me,  so  full  of  elemental  power  u; 
pleading  of  the  child. 

"  Come,  Nancy,"  and  the  old  tar's  voice  wa- 
tender ;  "  come  close  up  beside  me.  My  foot 
hurtin',  Nancy — an'  my  heart  ain't  hurtin' — no 
hurtin'  any  more.     I've  cast  anchor." 

"  What  d'ye  say,  Gus  ?  "  his  wife  asked  in  a 
dering  voice. 

"  I've    cast    anchor — where    the    preacher 
You'll  leave  the  book,  sir?"  his  voice  swelling; 
moment — "  an'  you're  sure  ye  marked  the  placi 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I'll  leave  it — and  it  s  marked 

"  Call  me  mate,"  the  strange  impulse  pron 
him  again. 

"  I  marked  it,  mate — and  I  turned  down  the  [ 

"  Then  sing  me  that  again — that  bit  aboi 
gale" 

"  What  gale,  mate  ?  " 


T^sSr 


^fiKfa 


:d  in  a  won- 


:aclicr    read. 


^i^HERE  GUS  CAST  ANGHOR      jo. 

"That  gale~the  gale  of  Jifc-thafs  h:  w  it  went 
before." 

I  knew  now  what  he  meant.  Nancy  s  face  was  in 
her  hands  and  httle  Tirn's  eyes  were  fi.xed  lovingly  on 
me  as  I  began.     When  I  came  to  the  lines  : 

••  Hide  me,  oh  my  Saviour  hide 
Till  the  storm  of  lift-  is  past  " 

the  dying  man  suddenly  interrupted  :  "  That'll  do,"' 
he  said,  his  voice  barely  audible,  "  that's  the  bit— 
that's  cnough—thct,  an'  the  place  ye  marked." 

We  were  soon  all  standing  by  his  bed.  The  strug- 
gle was  quickly  over.  Suddenly  his  face  assumed  an 
expression  of  peace  so  deep  that  I  thought  the 
harbour  had  been  really  won.  But  his  eyes  opened 
wide  and  both  hands  went  feebly  out ;  Nancy  took 
une  in  hers,  the  other  clasped  by  little  Tim. 

"  The  anchor  holds,"  he  murmured ;  "  Nanc)-,  the 
anchor  holds." 

A  moment  later  his  wife  turned  from  the  bed.  her 
apron  to  her  face,  groping  her  way  with  bitter  out- 
cry towards  the  adjoining  room.  Tim  followed ;  and 
through  the  open  door  I  could  hear  the  boy's   making 

voice  : 

"  I^on't  cry,  mammy ;  oh,  mammy,  don't  cr>'  so 
hard.    Dad  got  in,  mother-the  preacher  got  him  in." 
*  *  *  .. 

1  sat  up  till  Gordon  got  home  that  night,  for  I  had 


36a 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


much  to  discuss  with  nim.  The  precious  docii 
with  its  wizard  tidings  of  mining  shares,  was  sti 
fore  me  as  he  entered ;  and  I  broke  out  wiili 
word  about  what  Mr.  liradwin  had  said.  Hut 
I  looked  up  and  saw  the  far-ofT  look  of  pea 
Gordon's  face,  I  knew  it  was  sprung  from  sonu 
source  than  this. 

"  You  seem  so  happy,  Gordon,"   I  said ; 
makes  it  ?  " 

He  told  me;  but  when  he  spoke  about  that  la.-t 
— he  has  called  it  the  anchor  scene  ever  sine 
voice  faltered  so  he  could  hardly  go  on. 

"  We'll  put  these  away  to-night,"  I  said,  p 
up  the  papers.  "  But  what  do  you  intend  to  d 
— with  the  money,  Gordon  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he  answered  c 
Then,  after  a  pause ;  "  but  I  think  we'll  eniar 
chapel.  It  needs  it,  you  know — and  this  seer 
a  glorious  chance  to  do  it." 

I  wonder  if  my  face  showed  my  dissent.  / 
rate,  I  took  the  mighty  charter  and  restored  it 
desk.  "  There's  one  thing  we'll  do  first,  Gore 
said  in  a  voice  that  implied  finality,  "  and  you 
dispute  it,  either." 

"  What  is  it,  Helen  ?  "  his  words  full  of  won^ 

«'  We'll  pay  that— that  debt  of  Harold's," 
my  face  averted  as  I  leaned  over  the  desk. 


^^fER£  GUS  C^yT  ^KCHO/^  joj 
He  was  silent  for  long.  ••  Yes,  Helen."  he  an- 
swered quietly  at  Icn-th  ;  "  yes.  well  do  that  first— 
thafs  as  holy  as  the  other.  Oh.  Harold,  my  son.  my 
son~I  wonder  where  Harold  is  to-night."  the  words 
ringing  with  a  name  .ess  pain. 


mim% 


XXVIII 
"10    OLD   POINT  COMFORT,  DEAl 

I  SHALL  begin  this  chapter,  perhaps  the  c 
sing  chapter  o.'  my  artless  story,  with  the  sini] 
statement  that  we  were  back  again  in 
Andrew's  Church.  This  restoration  was  cffcci 
about  seven  months  after  the  incident  with  which  1 
last  chapter  had  its  close.  How  it  came  about, 
why,  I  shall  not  pause  to  tell.  But  there  wa 
vacancy  there— in  St.  Andrew's,  that  is— and 
thought  of  nearly  the  whole  congregation  1 
gradually  turned  towards  Gordon.  He  had  pro' 
his  worth,  had  fought  a  fight  so  stern  and  long, : 
had  come  out  of  it  with  a  faith  so  clear  and  a  po^ 
so  manifest,  that  it  was  only  natural  they  should  co 
his  ministry  again. 

He  returned  gladly  enough,  pride  and  gratit 
mingling  in  his  heart ;  and  the  Presbytery  seemed 
joiced  to  welcome  him  within  their  fold  again, 
still  retained  Swan  Hollow— this  he  insisted  upo 
as  a  kind  of  associate  charge.  They  gave  liin 
assistant,  and  Gordon  selected  a  young  minister  li 
from  Edinboro',  for  Scotchmen  are  the  most  clam 
of  all  living  things— and  they  worked  the  two  pi. 

364 


^.ti<.; 


"70  OLD  POINT  COMFORT,   DEAK^      365 

tosethcr.  taking  the  morning  and  evening  services 
alternately. 

Going  back  to  the  church  was  gladsome  enough 
to  me.     But  it  was  the  veriest  trifle  compared  with 
our  return  to  the  dear  old  manse,  where  our  children 
i.ad  been  born.     What  memories  thronged  about  us 
when  the  nightfall  found  us  once  again  beneath  the 
roof  of  St.  Andrews  Manse!     A  few  were  there  to 
welcome  us ;  we  tried  to  make  merry  with  them- 
but  my  heart  ached  till  they  should  be  gone.     And 
then,  hand  in  hand  as  in  other  days,  Gordon  and  I 
went  up-stairs  to  the  little  room  where  our  treasures 
^^eJ  to  lie.     Only  one  was  there  that  night,  our  lovely 
Dorothy,  and  she  lay  in  slumbering  beauty  where  she 
used  to  sleep  before.     The  other  bed  was  beside  hers 
as  m  the  days  of  yore_I  had  directed  that  it  should 
be  so— but  It  was  empty. 

Poor  Gordon  !  AH  the  joy,  the  triumph  even,  of 
1-  return  to  the  scene  of  our  former  life  was  lost  in 
^^  rrow  because  that  bed  was  empty. 

"IJ  sooner  be  in  the  poorest  hovel,  Helen  "  he 
-^'-^■<!  as  he  stood  beside  the  unused  couch,  •■  if  Harold 
^verc  only  back-Harold  and  Dorothy.  Our  cup  of 
happ.ne>.s  uould  be  full,  wouldn't  it.  dear,  if  both 
were  only  here  ?  " 

;  But  hell  come  h.,rV  .omc  day,"  I  tried  to  assure 
^^^ ;  "  that's  why  I  have  his  bed  all  ready-every- 


366  THE    ATTIC    GUEST 

thing  has  always  con.c  right,  Gordon,  even  if  it  ( 

come  late." 

"  If  we  only  knew  where  he  is,"  Gordon  went 
not  seeming  to  hear  ;  "  but  it  looks  as  if  we'd  nc 
learn.     Do  you  know,"  and  the  strong  voice  \ 
choked  with  tears  again,"  do  you  know.  Helen,  u 
I  wonder  every  night  before  I  go  to  sleep  ?  " 
"  No,  what  is  it,  Gordon  ?  " 
"  I  always  wonder  if  he's  cold— or  hungry, 
especially  if  he's  cold.     Oh,  surely  there's  nothing; 
sweet  to  a  father  as  tucking  his  children  up  at  ni 
_so  they  won't  be  cold.     After  we  left  here, 
home  we  went  to  was  so  little,  and  so  har.*  to  1 
—but  don't  you  remember  how  we  used  to  go  in 
tuclc  them  up,  so  warm  and  cozy  ?  " 

1  tried  my  best  to  comfort  him.  though  my  h 
had  its  own  load  to  carry.  For  the  dark  mystery 
hung  about  us ;  we  had  heard  never  a  wcmcI  f 
Harold.  His  debt  was  paid— as  has  been  told,  or 
plied,  already- and  nothmg  really  stood  in  the  un 
his  coming  back  except  that  we  did  not  know  w 
to  find  him.  And  every  effort  to  discern  his  wli 
abouts  had  ended  in  utter  failure.  But  we  still 
the  little  tryst,  still  kept  praying  on,  still  hoping 
trusting  that  the  Great  Father  would  staunch 
wound  which  no  human  hand  could  heal. 

The   summer  passed   and  still  r.o  tidings  c 


"TO  OLD  POINT  COMFORT,  DEAR"  367 
Then  I  bc-an  to  fear  seriously  for  Gordon.  The 
very  splendour  of  his  make--,;)  was  his  peril;  it  i, 
ever  so  with  natures  such  as  his.  And  his  sorrovv 
seemed  to  find  expression  in  an  ever  more  passionate 
cev.  t.on  to  his  work,  a  devotion  that  was  maki.n^ 
ium  the  idol  of  his  people,  even  if  it  brought  hin^ 
daily  nearer  to  collapse. 

Which  came  at  last.     It  was  one  Sabbath  in  early 
November,  and  Gordon  had  preached  that  morning 
from  the  text,  "  I  will  arise  and  go  unto  my  father  " 
I  -suppose  .t  was  the  tragedy  whose  home  was  his 
own  broken  heart  that  inspired  him ;  in  any  case  he 
poured  lus  soul  out  that  day  with  a  passion  and 
pathos  such  as  none  could  have  imagined  who  did 
not  led  the  torrent  of  his  power.     He  seemed  to  in- 
terpret the  very  heart  of  a  lonely  and  imploring  God 
But  what  the  effort  took  out  of  him  nobody  saw 
but  mc.     That  he  was  utterly  exhausted  was  evident 
^  he  walked  home  after  church,  but  I  thought  little 
°'  't;  yet,  even  then,  I  noticed  a  strange  incoherence 
■n  ins  speech,  and  a  tremulousness  about  his  voice 
^"''t  boded  ill.     The  collapse  came  during  the  after- 
noon ;  by  eventide  he  was  not  my  Gordon  any  more 
;'  "'"^^   wandering    far,  voicing   itself  in  strange 
P-anit  and  heart-breaking  appeal,  the  name  of  his 

absent  Harold  sounding  through  it  all  in  pitiful  re- 
train. 


^68 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


I  don't  think  the  physician  I  called  in  has 
day  knew  anything  about  the  skeleton  closet 
home— it  is  wunderful  how  soon  people  forg( 
those  who  know  you  best — but  he  located  the 
wound  with  wonderful  acuteness.  "  It's  an  u\ 
lapse, "  he  said  ;  "  what  might  be  called  a  seve 
of  nervous  breakdown— it  generally  occui 
people  of  strong  emotional  temperament.  H 
husband  had  any  great  shock  ?— or  has  he  b( 
rying  any  specially  heavy  burden,  proba 
months  ?  " 

I  told  him  as  much  as  1  thought  was  neces: 
••  Just  what  I  surmised,"  he  said  ;  "  he's  s 
from  what  the  German  physicians  call '  the  sa^ 
—and  all  this  derangement  is  due  to  the  sy 
between  the  brain  and  the  nerves.  High!; 
organism,  you  see— intense  emotional  natut 
evident ;  all  this  disturbance  is  a  result  of  tc 
the  strain  was  simply  too  much  for  him.  i 
recover  all  right — only  it  will  take  time,  t 

rest." 

A  consultation  followed  soon  ;  and  the  re; 
ail  was  that  Gordon  was  to  be  removed 
scenes  just  as  early  as  he  would  be  able  to  ti 
watched  by  him  night  and  day,  and  soon 
storm  of  emotion  was  succeeded  by  a  deep  a 
Crtim  inai  i  louriu  ainiuw;,  naiucr  vo    -^  o 


■■■70  OLD  POm-T  COMFORT,  DEAR'  359 
other.  He  would  sit  by  the  hour  poring  over  Har- 
old .  old  school  books,  or  gazing  at  some  boyish  pho- 
tographs of  the  wanderer,  or  holding  his  cricket  bat 
or  butterfly  net  lovingly  in  his  hands.  Sonietimes 
he  spoke  of  him.  but  not  often.  When  I  told  him 
uc  ucc  go.ng  away  for  a  little  hohday  he  consented 
readily  enough. 

"Whereshall  we  go.  Gordon?"  I  asked  him  with 
but  httle  hope  that  he  would  choose. 

'■  We'll  go  to  Qld  Point  Comfort."  he  answered  un- 
hesitatingly ;  "  that's  where  we  went  before." 

I  had  to  turn  away.     For  there  came   before  me 
^v.th  a  flash  of  memory,  the  days  to  which  I  knew' 
my  husband-s  words  referred.     Old  Point  Comfort 
ot  dear  and  blessed  memory  l^thither  had  we  turned 
0-  steps  the  night  of  our  wedd.ng  day.  going  forth 

the  moonht  bay  on  our  love-bright  journey,  the 
f-rc  years,  w.th  all  the  thorny  paths  that  awaited 
"■^  ve.led  in  the  mist  of  happiness  that  arose  from 
0-  s,nging  hearts.  Ah  me!  I  could  see  again 
tl'c  unseamed  face,  the  hair  untouched  by  time  the 
-•vunmmg  eyes  of  love,  when  my  lover  was  still  young 
and  joyous,  unworn  with  toil  and  care. 

"That's  where  we'll  go,"  I  answered  ;  «  we'll  go  to 
Old  Point.  Gordon." 

^  The  arrangements  for  our  journey  were  soon  com- 
!  -;  not  thini:,  even  were  it  possible,  that  I 


i 


370  THE   AITIC   GUEST 

would  willingly  forego  all  the  disc.pline-and  ih. 
blessing-that  our  years  of  poverty  had  brought  hk 
but  now  I  blessed  the  providence  that  liad  made  . 
possible  for  me  to  take  Gordon  away  like  this.  Monc; 
was  not  lacking  now-thanks  to  grandfather  and  llu 
blessed  mine-and  I  joyed  over  it  as  men  rejo.ce  . 
harvest  or  as  robbers  that  divide  the  spoil. 

The  evening  before  the  very  day  we  were  to  star 
something  occurred  which  wrung  my  heart  as  not! 
ing  not  even  the  loss  of  Harold,  had  ever  done  bcfor 
1  hid  been  compelled  to  leave  Gordon  for  a  htl 
while,  some  detail  of  preparation  demanding  my  .ttc 
tion  Returning  to  the  study,  our  usual  rc...t. 
found  it  empty;  and  my  heart  chilled  with  fear. 

..  Come,  Helen."  i  suddenly  heard  Gordon'.,  vo 
cr>-ing  from  without ;  "  oh,  Helen,  come,  coim:  qu.c 
There  was  a  strange  note  of  excitement,  even  ol  . ; 
ture,  in  the  voice  that  called  me. 

Hatless,  coatless,  I  rushed  out  into  the  frosty  lu, 
And  just  across  the  way,  in  a  large  adjoining  yarc 
could  see  Gordon  hurrying  fast  toward  a  little  ^v 
in  the  distance.  Sometimes  he  lo<;kccl  back 
called  me,  then  hurried  on  again,  the  stran-c  u:: 
tion  still  sounding  in  his  voice.  When  1  ovc-; 
him.  he  was  clasping  in  his  arms  a  wondering  bo 
solitary  skater  on  the  frozen  pond. 

.,,....   o-b-'  mother— oh.  Helen,  he's  com 


■'■TO  OLD  POINT  COMFORT,   DEAR'     371 

hst.  It's  Harold,  mother  "—and  I  noticed  in  the  fail- 
ing light  tliat  the  lad  was  actually  about  I  larolds  size 
-ind  form.  "I  knew  you'd  come  back,  Harold,"  he 
cried  as  he  held  the  youth  to  his  bosom ;  "  oh,  my 
>c)ii,  I  knew  you'd  come— but  what  made  you  stay 
av.ay  so  long?  And  are  you  cold,  Harold  ?— I've 
been  so  afraid  you  might  be  cold."  Then  he  held  the 
^tattled  boy  out  before  him,  his  eyes  lingering  with 
pitiful  intentness  on  the  face  he  held  upturned  to  his 
lun.  ••  You've  grown  some,"  he  said  fondly,  "  but 
you're  my  ovu  Harold  yet— come,  come  on  home 
ri'.w  wiUi  me  and  mother.  Your  bed's  all  ready  for 
you,  Harold;  and  Oorothy  will  be  so  glad— she's 
Ii'nely,  she's  lonely  for  you,  Harold." 

I  stood  transfixed  and  mute  with  gMcf.  Then  the 
\m  made  some  reply,  I  know  not  what.  Ikit  he 
broke  the  awful  silence  with  a  word— and  Gordon's 
liand.  fell  to  his  side  like  lead.  He  stood  a  moment 
Judcr  the  trembling  stars,  then  stooped  and  -a:.x-  I 
■^^",:^  into  the  face  that  had  filled  his  soul'with 
Jiectmg  rapture.  Slowly  he  turned,  looked  a  niomcni 
upuani  at  the  wintry  sky,  then  silently  moved  to- 
■vards  inc. 

"  It  isn't  Harold."  he  said  after  a  long  pause,  his 
eyes  searching  m-  face  with  unutterable  yearning  ; 
"'t'^  somebody  use's  boy— let  us  go  home  again," 
^  '^ve  started  back  hand  in  hand.     The  clock  in  au 


f 

:        '     J 

f 

''              \ 

i 

i- 

. 

l- 

'^£ 

373 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


adjoining  steeple  struck  the  hour  as  we  wen 
way  ;  and  its  knell  is  with  me  yet. 

The  next  day  saw  us  off  upon  our  soutl 
journey,  Dorothy  and  Gordon  and  I.  The  c 
had  filled  me  with  high  hope ;  the  change  of  ai 
especially  of  scene,  he  said,  were  almost  sure 
great  things  for  my  dear  one.  And  the  very  fe 
that  alarmed  me  most  were  those  by  which  he  st 
to  be  reassured.  The  very  acuteness  of  the  ni 
lie  said,  was  its  most  hopeful  sign.  I  have 
thought  of  this  since  and  applied  it  to  many  I 
other  than  bodily  infirmities ;  the  acute  is  the 
sient,  let  all  sufferers  bear  m  mind,  and  all  who 
life's  battle  hard. 

We  arrived  at  Old  Point  in  the  morning,  ai 
balmy  air  and  genial  skies  seemed  to  help  G 
from  the  first.  Oh,  sweet  Southern  air  and  s\ 
Southern  skies  !  how  unspeakably  dear  to  me  I 
not  till  I  thus  returned  after  all  the  maze  of 
It  was  so  delicious  to  hear  again  the  soft  Soi 
accent,  to  catch  the  liquid  voices  of  the  negrt 
breathe  in  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  that  bio 
our  dear  Southland  even  in  November. 

I  remembered — what  woman  would  forgft 
very  room  that  had  been  ours  when  we  were  tli 
that  same  hotel  o.)  our  bridal  tour  so  long  a£] 


re  went  uur 


■■TO  OLD  POINT  CUMFOUT,  DEAR^  ^,j 
'7"'  litHe  room,  wi.h  a  ,i„y  balcony  ,|,a,  looked 
™.  upon  .h=  o„a„.  And  I  arranged  .haeweshould 
avc  „  „o«.,  would  take  no  other.  Not  a  word 
.d  I  say  ,o  Gordon.  Bu.  ,„e  fc,  nigh,  we  were 
there,  afcer  Dorothy  had  been  safely  stored  away  I 
»a.^s,t.,nB  beside  him,  ,oofci„„  ou,  over  the  moo  .'lit 

harbour  The  night  was  hushed,  the  ocean  caim . 
vo.ces  of  darkey  stevedores  floated  softly  „p  ,„  „,  J 
Ihcy  moved  hither  and  thither  with  their  creaking 
Wheelbarrows  on  tlie  wliarf. 

Suddenly  Gordon  turned  his  face  full  on  mine  in 
hcn,„onhght.    ..  Helen."  he  began  huskily,.,  do  you 
knuw  ivhat  room  this  is,  Helen  ?  " 

I  ydded  to  his  arms  as  he  slowly  drew  me  within 
•fc-  shelter;  .•  ifs  where  .-e  were  before-when  you 

solljy ,    did  you  know  it,  Helen  ?  " 
1  nodded,  smiling  up  to  his  bending  .ace     ..  Ves 

U.n™,t,darling,..Isa.d:...hat.swhyIchoseit; 
U-no,v  not  why  it  was_,  suppose  no  one  could 
"III  7""'  ""  ''■^""  "-  •"  -■  -''  'He  dark- 

-    to  Gordon;  slowly  a,  ,5r,t;  then, n  copious 

™...    t  shook  and  sobbed  hke  the  frame  of  a  little 
"«.    I  ass,o„a.ely  he  held  „,e,  his  kisses  falling  on 


rSfl?v 


374 


THE    ATTIC    GUEST 


i 


my  lips  while  he  murmured  such  words  of  1 
the  days  of  courtship  had  never  heard, 

"  It  was  like  this  before,"  he  cried,  pojntins 
radiant  sea;  "the  momi  shone  on  ,,  just  lit 
And  wc  were  so  happy  then  darling— we 
know  of  the  long  years,  with  their  care  and  h 
that  stretched  before  us.  Ami  you've  been  si. 
Helen,  so  true  and  taithful— and  so  brave;  wl 
I've  done,  (^r  been,  I  owe  to  you,  my  darlinj 
throu(;h  all  the  gust  d"  passion  his  voice 
naturalness,  his  eye  a  new-found  calm,  th 
me  the  long  dark  night  was  past. 

«'  We  were  so  happy  then,  weren't  we,  dca 
said  again  after  a  little  stillness. 

<'  I'm  happier  now,"  I  answered,  nestling  in 

"  Why  ? "  he  exclaimed.  Then,  s'uldenly  c 
ing :  "  I  know  why — it's  because  we  ha 
children  now.  Isn't  that  why,  Helen— isn't  i 
thy  and  Harold  ?  " 

I  told  him  Yes  ;  and  the  fancy,  if  it  can  so  b( 
seemed  to  help  and  comfort  him.  "  Yes," 
musingly,  "  it's  wonderful,  isn  t  it,  how  w 
have  been  happy  then  at  all— when  we  did 
them.     But  God  gave  them  to  us,  didn't  He,  1 

"  Yes,"  I  murmured,  my  face  hidden  ;  "  y 
gave  them." 

"  And  they're  still  H's  to  give,"  he  went  on 


'■'L';^.r,-~lt^ „■  ,   -J-. 


^tx^^ 


been  so  C(.<ril, 


vent  on,  a  great 


•70  OLD  POINT  COMfORT,  DHAR-  57^ 
);':^cc  in  his  voice  such  as  it  thr,llal  my  sofl  to  feel  • 
"thcyVe  still  His  to  give.  And  I  k-ncnv- r,„  almost' 
-urc-that  He'll  give  us  Harold  back  again.  Some 
'  ■  tells  mc  that  it's  coming  near  ;  I  kncu  it  ulu-n 
I  I-uked  out  on  the  water-when  the  dark  fled  l,e- 

l.TCthehghtthatnoud-Mit.      I  Jun't  y,.u  th.nk  so.  ,„y 
dirling?"  ' 

I  forget  just  u-hat  my  answer  was  ;  b.i  v.  c  sat  i.     . 
soothing  and  comforting  each  other,  drinking  deep 
from    Memory's    spring.     liy   and   b^.    Gordon    .dl 
x^ccpwith  his  head  resting  on  my  arm.  the  moon- 
.i^'l.t  st.ll  playing  on  the  pnre  and  lovely  features  as 
^ve  sat  by  the  open  window.     I  brooded  above  him 
thankmg  God  for  the  change   I  could  .see  upon  the' 
care-u     n  face.     The  tide  had  turned,  the  reaction 
l''~'d  come    at  last,  the  strife  of  battle  seemed  sp.nt 
and  gone.     All  night  long  he  slept  the  sleep  of  a  lutle 
child  ;  the  morning  found  him  bnght  and  tranquil,  and 
iHs  first  waking  word  wa.  to  say  that  he  was  well 

For  a  couple  of  weeks,  or  perhaps  a  little  longer 
«^^  lingered  on  in  our  quiet  retreat,  ever)-  hour  bli^ss- 
'^i  ".th  ,t3  evidence  of  returning  strength.  (Gordon 
^P"!<c  often  of  Harold,  b.t  always  now  with  a  sweet 
tr-tfulness  that  wa.  beautiful  to  see  ;  I  really  believe 
-d  n>ade  lum  well  by  touchmg  his  spirit  with  the 
T  ''  '  f '^^'^^^  ^-^'^-  It  was  a  nu-racle,  I  have 
—ca-d  to  think,  iet  the  critics  say  what  they 


MICROCOPY   RESOIUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^     APPLIED  INA^GE 


'653   East    Mam   Street 

Rochester.    New   York         U609       USA 

(?16)   482  -  0300 -Phone 

(716)    288  -  5989  -  Fox 


HtrOSr-iiMlB^  t.m^%t^3^'^XM^*'SKdiMfif^ 


376  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

will.     And  as  his  strength  came  back  his  hea 
to  turn  wistfully  towards  his  work ;  I  rea 
believe  any  one  ever  knew  how  much  he 
Andrew's,  and  had  loved  it  all  through  the  3 

I  protested  against  his  re;  urning,  but  in  v 
it  was  all  arranged  that  we  were  to  start  hon 
following  Monday.  The  evening  before, 
preached  for  a  clergyman  whose  acquaintani 
formed,  the  minister  of  a  little  Methodist  ch 
far  away.  I  was  there,  of  course ;  and  th 
was  one  of  the  noblest  I  ever  heard  Gordon 
was  from  the  words  :  "  Casting  all  your  c 
Him,"  and  I  know  every  listener  felt  that 
sage  was  heaven-born. 

After  the  service  was  finished  I  was  goi 
the  aisle  alone,  when  suddenly  I  heard  s 
pronounce  my  name. 

"  Miss  Helen  !  "  said  the  voice,  and  bygc 
rolled  back  upon  me  at  the  tone. 

I  swung  around,  wildly  excited.  It  was 
from  home.  "  Mr.  Slocum ! "  I  cried,  so 
everybody  stood  still  and  looked  at  me ; 
Slocum ! — Oh,  Frank  ! "  and  I  stood  gaspi: 
aisle.  It  was  one  of  the  friends  of  my  early 
— the  same  who  had  been  my  escort  to 
that  far  departed  night  when  we  had  first 
the  Presbytery,  and  the  attic  guest  it  was  to 


id  bygone  years 


^'70  OLD  POINT  COMFORT.   DEAR"     377 
"  I  wan't  right  sure."  he  began,  rosy  as  the  dawn; 
"  but  some  one  told  me  the  preacher  was  Mr.  Laird 
—then  I  knew  you  were  Mrs.  Laird." 

"  Oh.  Frank ! "  I  cried.  "  please  call  me  Helen  "  for 
the  musk  of  it  was  refreshing ;  '<  come  away-come. 
and  go  home  with  me  and  Gordon." 

I  believe  Gordon  enjoyed  that  evening  with  Frank 
quue  as  much  as  I.  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
He  said  afterwards  that  I  reminded  him  of  a  child 
running  hither  and  thither  through  a  flower-strewn 
glade,   plucking  whatever    her   hands  could  reach 
Thus  did  I  gather  news  from  Frank.     My  questions 
rained  in  on  him  from  every  point  of  the  compass, 
leaping  from  one  subject  to  another  like  a  peewee  on 
the  shore.     (That's  a  kind  of  witches'  dance  in  meta- 
phors. I  know,  but  they  all  mean  the  same  thing  any- 
how.)   I   cross-questioned   Frank  about  everything 
and  everybody,  while  Gordon  sat  listening  with  an 
amused  expression  on  his  face.     Particularly  did  I 
put  h.m  through  his  facings  about  my  old  school- 
girl  friends.     The  first  question,  without  exception. 
was  as  to  how  many  children  they  had-till  this  be- 
came so  chronic  that  Frar.k  would  begin  with  this 
himself,  not  waiting  to  be  asked.     It  saddened  me 
some  to  learn  that  sever.!  of  them   had   twice  as 
'^anyas  I.     One  old  friend.  Sadie  Henderson,  had 
exactly  three  times  as  many-but  two  of  them  came 


378 


THE    /IT  TIC    GUEST 


at  once,  so  that  they  didn't  really  count, 
moreover,  had  none  at  all,  which  brought 
and  me  pretty  well  up  on  the  average. 

Frank  had  httle  to  say  about  Uncle  He 
Aunt  Agnes  except  that  they  were  gettin] 
which  I  would  have  surmised  myself. 
Frank  had  a  sensitive  nature ;  and  I  suppos 
membered  the  stormy  scene  when  Gordon 
uncle  s  house.  I  fancied,  in  a  woman's  in; 
way,  that  there  was  something  he  wanted  t 
me  alone.  And  I  was  right  enough.  For 
walked  with  him  as  far  as  the  hotel  piazza,  v 
were  gazing  out  over  the  shimmering  se? 
told  me  something  that  proved  to  be  a  wore 
tiny. 

"  You  all  are  going  back  by  New  York,  yoi 
he  began,  looking  up  significantly.  Th( 
sounded  sweet — jyou  all — how  long  since  I  h; 
that  brace  of  words  before ! 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  ;  "  why  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something  interesting  ; 
care  to  say  it  before  you*  *  'sb?.nd,  for  fear 
affect  his  plans — I  know  how  matters  stand 
him  and  your  uncle,   you  know — but  I  tl 
ought  to  be  told.     Your  uncle's  in  New  Yor 

"  What?"  I  gasped,  and  1  felt  the  colour  1 
cheek ;  "  uncle's  what  ? — he's  where  ?  " 


■•TO  OLD  POINT  COMFORT.   DEAR'     „, 

"He's    in    New  York,"    Frank  repeated  calmly. 

"Ive  j.se  come  from  there-we  were  staying  a.  the 

same  hotel."  /    s.  »i  me 

"And  Aunt  Agnes?"  I  asked  swiftly,  n,y  eyes 
fixed  on  him  in  the  gloom. 

•'No,  Mr..  Lundy's  at  home-your  uncle  went  up 
on  some  business.  I  behevc.     Mighty  successful  too 
as  far  as  I  could  judge,"  Frank  added. 

I  cared  nothing  for  this.     -  What  hotel,  Frank  ?  " 
I  demanded  eagerly  ;  "  tell  me  the  hotel." 

know"'   ^'"    ^'"^"-^PP^^'^^    Grace    Church,   you 

Little  more  was  said  and  I  soon  bade  Frank  fare- 
well. Then  I  walked  slowly  back  to  Gordon,  trying 
to  compose  myself,  struggling  to  subject  my  impulse 
to  my  judgment.     But  it  was  of  no  use.     My  heart 

was  ehe,rt  of  childhood  once  again;  all  I  knew 
^;as  this,  that  a  few  hours  would  bring  us  to  New 
^ork  .hat  we  had  intended  going  tiiere  anyhow- 
and  that  my  uncle  was  within  reach  of  one  who  had 
never  ceased  to  love  him. 
I  paused  a  moment  before  I  opened  the  door  and 

--^vhere  Gordon  was  still  sitting,  gazing  out  on 
tne  ever  fascinating  scene. 

iaii?"'  '!'"''  ^'"^  ^°"  P"'"P  ^"'"^  ^'■y?"  he  asked 
jauntily  as  I  entered. 

-Oh.    Gordon,"    and    now   I    was   on   his   knee 


38o 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


(woman's  throne  of  power)  with  his  face  betw 
hands ;  "  oh,  Gordon,  don't  say  No.    Don't, 
— won't  you  do  this  for  me,  this,  that  I'm  £ 
ask  ?  " 

Soon  I  had  poured  out  the  whole  story  to 
noticed   his  brow  darken  a  Httle  at  first,  ; 
quivering  Hp  told  how  much  I  had  asked  of  h 

But  Gordon  was  all  gold  through  and  thro 
always  was,  my  Gordon  was,  from  that  fii 
when  my  eyes  fell  upon  his  face  till  now ;  and 
of  this  later  day,  although  I  suppose  folks 
old,  exceeds  that  early  ardour  as  the  noontid( 
the  dawn. 

"Yes,  my  wife,"  he  said,  stroking  my  1 
looking  with  almost  pitying  fondness  on  n 
"  yes,  brave  heart  and  true — you  were  his  be 
were  mine.    And  we'll  go,  Helen — we'll  botl 


XXIX 
'THE  HOUR   OF  HEALING 

THE  mighty  city  seemed  hushed  as  I  made 
my  way  along  the  corridor  of  the  old  hotel 
But  I  suppose  the  hush  was  from  myheart.' 
You  11  wa,t  here,  will  you.  ma'am  ? "  and  the  bell- 
boy opened  the  door  of  the  retired  little  parlour  as  he 
spo  e.  »  I'll  bring  Mr.  Lundy  in  a  minute.  Yes  I 
thmk  he's  in.  ma'am ;  his  room's  on  this  floor.  Don't 
you  want  me  to  take  him  your  card  ? " 

"  No."  I  answered :  "  iust  t^ll  w,rr,  ,  i  j 

'    J"^"^  '^^"  nim  a  lady  wants  to 
see  him  here— an  old  friend  of  his." 

The  boy  disappeared  along  the  shadowy  hall.     I 
had  but  a  i^v^  minutes  to  wait.     "  This  here's  the 

<ioor.  sir."  I  heard  the  boy  direct;  and  then  I  could 
an  S  '';;'"^'"^  ^^^P'  -^  yet  forgotten,  as  a  tall 
and  bended  form  came  slowly  into  the  room.  Keen 
and  curious  was  tne  glance  that  came  from  the  en- 
q-nng  eyes,  swiftly  searching  amid  the  failing  hght 

en  u!h""  '"•■  """'"  '  ^'^"^^  '  ^^^'  ^"^  •'  - 
-  back  over  all  the  waste  of  years,  to  recall  Z 
^.  n.ng  speed  the  love  and  laughter  of  the  days 
^^at  were  no  more.     My  heart  leaped  within  me  as  I 

381 


3S3 


THE   A171C   GUEST 


saw  the  change  that  time  had  made.  Uncle 
old  man  now,  and  the  years  had  bowed  the  er 
stalwart  frame ;  snowy  white  was  the  hair  tli 
been  but  streaked  with  gray  when  I  saw  it  lasi 
serious  than  of  old,  but  flashing  the  same  k 
light,  the  same  lofty  pride,  were  the  kind 
whose  glow  no  years  could  quench  or  dim. 

-  Oh,  uncle ! "  I  sobbed,  the  storm  breakir 
a  moment;  "oh,  uncle!  Uncle  dear,  it's  r 
your  little  girl— it's  Helen." 

He  had  started  back  as  I  moved  towar( 
But  my  voice  arrested  him,  that  wondrous 
that  changes  not  with  changing  years.  A  i 
he  stood,  as  though  he  had  heard  the  trump 
itself.  Then,  like  an  aspen,  .rom  head  to 
trembled— and  the  fear  flash-  '  through  my  n: 
I  had  acted  with  cruel  hast 

But  the   great   cry  wh     \  t   from   1 

articulate  word — rang  with  suUi  fullness  of 
strength  as  to  dispel  my  every  fear.  A  mom 
I  was  in  his  arms.  He  bore  me  to  the  windc 
arms  as  strong  as  in  other  days,  smoothing 
hair  as  he  leaned  over  and  peered  into  my  fa 
"  Oh,  God  ! "  the  words  coming  like  a  pray 
Helen— she's  come  back.  But  it's  been  so  Ic 
your  hair's  getting  gray,  H°len— and  you  Ic 
than  when  you  went  away." 


■rilE   HOUK    OF  HEALING        jH, 
I  MHiled,  gating   .,p  a,  ,„„,    ;„  ,,,,, 
"Count  the  years,  uncle." 

••  The  year,  !•■  he  broke  out  With  ti,e  old  fiery  in- 
terseness;    ..count    the    years-haven't   I   counted 

—and  the  days,  and  the  hou._aitinra, 
ways  waitinti.     Oh    Helm    if-c  k         i 

b      yjih  xieien,  its  been  Ir^rr it's  hpf^n 

».ong.     B"t,vhatcou.dIdo,-.,a."co,     ::; 
«  .on,an      ave    done,  when   r   passed  .y  .J, 

mat If  your  husband •• 

I  laid  my  finger  on  his  hps ;  then  leaned  up  and 

-dth  And  our  speech  flowed  back,  half  „f^ 

-St , „cohere„t,intothes,veeter channels that:avd 

■=    appy  past  in  which  we  were  botl.  content    o 

«.    Much  of  it  was  of  n,y  mother,  my  salted 

".other,    or  whom  life's  conflict  had  so  long  ^en 

°  rr      ™t'  ''""  ''"=  """6'=''  -■*  nfy  own 

,,    ™'  f'  senile  voice  began,  when  the  dusk  had 

•cr::,"!fr7;-p'"-comp,ete... 

«  Vou  sh„  u  .  ^'''  ^'■'"'y  "ondering. 

o«H  dl  enl^eH?  ''°"^'"  '^"''°"  "■'"■  >'™-"' 
Surelv  hVT  "'"'■  """  "■'"•  '■'"'•  yo"  know. 

-ely  he  doesn,  tti„k  ^m  one  of  those  old  vipe. 
t'lat  carries  things  till  death  ?  "  h.c      •      , 
than  before.  ''"  ^^^^^  ?     his  voice  less  steady 

"  -^^'3  here,"  I  said  softly;  -  he's  down-stai«." 


384 


7HE   ATTIC   GUEST 


Uncle  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  the  years  hac 
held  their  enfeebling  hand.  "  Bring  him  up 
for  him  at  once,"  he  ordered,  as  though  commj 
a  regiment  of  soldiers.  "  Ring  the  bell — whcri 
boy  ? — are  the  servants  all  asleep  ?  These  r 
dogs  they've  got  in  the  North — I  wouldn't  give 
or  any  good  nigger  for  a  bushel  of  them.  A 
your  children — is  the  little  girl  with  him  now  ? 

His  question  cut  me  like  a  knife.  For  I  h;i 
back  part  of  our  life's  story,  the  bitter  part,  whci 
had  enquired  about  our  children.  We  only  b 
one  of  them,  I  had  said — but  hoped  he  mij; 
Harold  later  on.    Which  was  true  enough,  so  tru 

"  I  don't  need  you,"  uncle  said  abruptly  as 
ant's  head  appeared  at  the  door.    "  I'll  go  tc 
he  announced  to  me — "  I'll  go  to  Gordon.     I 
don't  forge     'hat's  becoming  in  a  Southern 
man — besides,   he's   come  far  enough.      Yo 
here — I'd  know  him  in  a  thousand,  unless  he's  ( 
sight  plainer  than  he  used  to  be.     Always 
a   hankerin'  for  him,  I  believe,  like  a  nigge: 
watermelon.     You  wait  here,  Helen,"  and  he 
his  way,  straightening  himself  with  all  the  o 
dignity,  upon  his  courtly  errand. 


It  was  the  following  evening,  the  evening  o 
that  had  been  filled  with  unmiXwd  gladness 


THE  HOUR   OF  HEALI^o       ,85 

Ml  to  his  heart  and  mine     M„      ,      "  ''""'^'■•'''•e 

'"  '"'■"«  ""'•  "■■■■  brightness  leave  hheyeasfr 

-.™t,y  floated  before  him  .he  Vision  T;V':: 
sen.  face     Indeed,  he  said  as  much  to  „:   Z 
I.C  g  adness  only  threw  into  darker  contra  te 
A. ng  cloud  that  was  always  in  our  sky. 

'«  uncle  had  been  so  lovely  ,0  us  both  this  dav 
>nd  we  had  just  fin.shcd  dinner  at  so„,l  I' 

""  >"— "  o"-  Southern  di:r:::i; 

»™  to  be  had  in  all  their  gW    'TJ  '^• 

-'-^  "owin  uncle,  room;  a     i;!:;"'"" 

'reeling  all  his  powers  of  persua«;,nn 
husband.  persuasion  upon  my 

"It's  the  purest  play  I  ever  sn.w  in  niv  hf.  "  i, 

-redone  hand  holding  Gordon  by  the  W^^^^ 

^  Sood  as  a  sermon.     I've  heard  L 

that  didn't  do  m.  ,  ''P'  °  sermons 

stead-rt:n;:-.^^"^"^'^°°'^^'^^^<^^^^Home^ 

"I  ^vas  never  at  the  theatre  in  my  life  "  „.,  u 
''and  made  reply  "  evcenf  .„  ■      t  ^  ^"'" 

^anrlT^     .  ''^P**'''^^  Invent  to  see  IrvinfT 

^^"d  I  don't  altogether  believe  in  if  ^ 

,.,,     "  ''  ^^'  ^^"^'••n  Irving."  uncle  ur^ed-  "and 
J-^  '1  preach  better  after  it."  ' 


3S6  THE   ATTIC    GUEST 

..  I  don't  feci  much  in  the  mood  for  th 
Gordon  responded  ;   "  my  days    for  mcrrim 
past.  I  fear,"  which  came  with  a  smile  that 
he  didn't  quite  believe  it. 

"That's  the  very  time  to  go,"  insisted 
M  that's  when  you  want  to  get  the  cobweb: 
out  of  you-and  this'U  do  it  all  right." 

..  ril  leave  it  to  Helen,"  Gordon  suddt 
claimed;  "  if  she  wants  to  go,  I'll  give  in." 

Five   minutes  before,  1    can   frankly  say 

hoped  Gordon  would  carry  his  point.     The 

that  particular  night,  had  no  charm  for  n 

now  that  Gordon  had  left  the  matter  in  ni 

some  mysterious  impulse  settled  my  resolve 

Nobody  need  tell  me  that  women,  true  wo 

far  from  the  unseen.     For  my  resolve  was 

the    instant,  so   suddenly   and   confidentl) 

amazed  myself. 

"We'll  50,"  I  said  quietly.  "The  pla 
good  ;  I'm^ure  I've  heard  of  it  before_a. 
to  see  it,  Gordon." 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  we  w< 
five  or  six  rows  from  the  footlights,  wat 
haymakers  gathered  about  the  moss-grov 
that  gives  its  charm  to  the  opening  scene  of 
Homestead."  But  the  play  had  not  pro. 
before  I  began  to  regret  bitterly  that  w- 


■^"E  HOUR    OF  HEALING       js, 

"7Vr'  '""""""-"<"'-, ha.  ,.,.,,,0, 
.c„.rcd  about  an  uosen,  b,,,, .  .„„  for  »,,„„  a  fa  her 
--  i.t  m  van,,  I  fc„,,,  ,„,„  Gordon's  Gc,hs.„,an. 
wa,  deepened  by  every  .ord  and  aC.    Tl.i.  par- 

.cu  ar  k,nd  of  anguish  ,vas  realisr.c  enough  to  us 
Ml.,  wthout  any  representati  .,  ,  vivid,  v.,  „.. 
had  .0  sit  there,  uncle  ai.c.  Ay  ,,,,|,„^  ,„., 
-veoprng  at  our  si..e,  and  ul.ness  the  rehearsal  of  all 
.e  knew  so  well      I  was  sitting  beside  (iordon  ;  and 

covertly  go,  ,  h„,d  „f  ,,.,  „^„,^  p^^^^.       .^  ^.^^^^ 

.ole   1,™  knew  n,y  heart  was  aching  too.     I  found 
%-sclf.  almost  before  I  knew  it,  leaning  forward  in 
an  agony  of  interest  and  suspense  as  the  great  emo- 
fons  of  a  parent's  love  and  loneliness  were  set  forth 
.n  ternble  reality.    It  was  as  if  Gordon's  heart  and 
™e  were  bo,     laid  bare  that  night;  and,  found 
2   elf  wonder,,      .f  all  this  meant  to  any  others  in 
■hat  crowded  throng  what  it  meant  to  us 

Uncle  was  enraptured  at  our  fixity;  he  knew  not 

he  source  of  our  deadly  interest.     "  Didn't  I  ,e,l 

)»"f    he  wh,spered  to  Gordon  as  the  tension  came 

car  ,js  height ;  ■■  ever  see  anything  like  that  before  ? 

fcn  t  that  true  to  life,  eh  ?  " 

as  fivod"  ;"":p°''='  '"'  ^y-  '-"-g  far  beyond, 
as  fi«d  as  though  set  on  death  itself 

^^^Isn't. ha.  true  to  life,"  uncle  repeated,  accus- 

'^'^  ^0  Jcing  answered. 


^ 


388 


THE  ATTIC   GUEST 


'«  Yes,  oh,  God,  yes— yes,  it's  true,"  I  hes 

Gordon  falter  as  he  bowed  forward  and  co\ 

face  with  his  hands.     Uncle,  dumb  with  won 

uttered  never  a  word.     I  prayed  for  strength 

The  tide  ebbed  and  flowed,  as  is  the  way 

laughter  and  tears  following  each  other  in  q 

cession.      A  wave  of  mirth— about  the  p 

incident,  I   think,  when  the  old  man  imaj 

collector  is  robbing  the  mails— h* J  just  c 

the  audience  when  Gordon  whispered  to  m 

could  staiil  it  no  longer. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Gordon,"  I  whispered ; 
he's  going  to  find  him,"  and  I  saw  his  f 
with  the  pallor  of  the  dead. 

He  made  no  reply ;  but,  clutching  his  ha 
to  go,  swaying  unsteadily  where  he  stood. 

I  began  reaching  for  my  wraps  and  was  . 
to  follow.  He  paused  to  wait  for  me,  hi 
his  hand,  I  think— of  this  I  am  not  sure, 
before  we  turned  to  go,  my  eyes  were  c 
farewell  glance  upon  the  stage.  My  hcc 
my  heart  stood  still ;  my  lips  clave  togethe 

and  dry. 

"Oh,  Gordon,"  I   cried,  bleating,  "  lool 
look,"  swimming  towards  him  even  as  I 
the  stage. 

His  towering  figure  turned  where  he  s 


re  he  stood ;  and 


rHE  HOUR  OF  HEALING  ^ 
his  burning  .yes,  agio.  wi.h  .he  passion  .hat  was 
rn  ,„g  h™,  leaped  .o  where  I  s.iU  poin.ed  .,;,^Z 
stretched  hand.  Then  I  straigh.ened  myself  .00  I 
one  m,gh.  gather  his  sou,  for  .he  Judgmen.  Day  and 
jomed  my  gaze  „i.h  his.  The  eyes  of  aU  in  , ' 
iiouse  were  uDon  nc  r  .. 

e  upon  us,  I  suppose_bu.  I  shall  never 
know.    We  s.ood  .„ge.her,  oblivious  .0  all  excep 
^e  des.,ny  of  wea,  or  woe  .ha.  wai.ed  us,  lool   g 
Mh  loo^ng,  as  .he  eye  of  .he  E.ernal  iJelf  migh'.' 
look.    We  could  „o._we  dared  no._be  sure  lest 
«e  n„gh.  cour.  .he  bi..erness  of  dea.h.    The  ,ilh 
«  no.  bngh.  enough,  or  .rue  enough-forut 

each  Cher,  wherefore  nei.her  spoke  any  word, 

ine  scene  was  the  crreat  Rr,^o^ 

"ic  great  iJroadvvay  scene,  where  the 

~a.herfind3hissona.las..    And  .1,1. 
^te    you.h   upon   Whom   .ha.  fa.her-.ha.  acg 

Tnlrr      ;  °"  '^'^  — 'indreadfu! 

oe,  ,    ques.,oning  .ha.  involved  our  souls.    We 

uld  „o._we  dared  no._k„ow;  bu.  suddenly  .he 

outcry  of  In  .     ^^^^-broke   forth  with  a  wild 

o'led  and  wasted  prodigal  before  him. 
•f^nd  then — and  thpn     «,•     j- 
chant  ther.  then^m.nghng  with  the  father's 

g     note ,  a  l.ttle  cr>',  a  muffled  plaint  of 


■^-^mym. 


390 


THE   ArriC   GUEST 


penitence  and  hope.     It  was  such  a  Uttle  sou 

dued  and  faltering  as  became  a  broken  hear 

was  almost  lost  in  the  father's  louder  strai: 

heard  it,  and   my  soul  laid  hold  of  God. 

stifled  cry— but  it  was  the  same  I  had  hearc 

first  came  out  of  the  valley  and  my  new-born  1 

lay  helpless  at  my  breast;  the  same  I  had 

thousand  times  when  he  was  hurt  or  wroi 

toddled  in  to  me  with  the  boyish  story  of  1 

the  same  I  had  heard  when  he  came  home  t 

and  told  me  of  his  sin  ;  the  same  I  had  he; 

he  bent  above  his  sleeping  sister  and  kiss 

long  farewell. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  I  said,  fainting,  "  it's  Ha 

our  Harold ! " 

He  knew  it  too.  And  he  left  me  wh« 
half  conscious  in  uncle's  arms.  I  see  it  all ; 
mantled  though  I  was,  as  in  a  dream.  Tl 
dropped  just  as  uncle's  arm  received  me,  a 
glided  towards  the  narrow  half-hidden  pa 
leading  to  the  stage.  Slowly  it  fell,  right  d 
to  the  floor,  shutting  out  the  last  fragmi 
vision  that  had  flooded  our  hearts  with  hea^ 
me !  no  one  there— not  even  uncle— knew  i 
life's  curtain  had  really  risen,  the  play,  the 
play  of  life,  only  just  begun. 

The  orchestra  had  softly  started  some  su 


it's  Harold— it's 


ome  subdued  and 


THE  HOUR    OF  HEALING        391 

sympathetic  air;  I  knew  not,  nor  yet  do  know,  what 
stram  .t  was-but  it  fell  on  my  reviving  heart  with 
the  sweetness  of  such  music  as  angels  make-and  my 
eyes  flew  after  Gordon  as  he  was  swallowed  up  of  the 
shadowy  passageway  that  led  back  to  that  mysterious 
region  where  actors  are  men  and  women,  players 
now  no  more.     I  think  somebody,  some  hireling  who 
knew  not  what  he  did.  tried  to  turn  Gordon  from  his 
course-as  well  have  tried  to  stop  Niagara.     I  fancy 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  as  he  swept  the  intruded 
by-his  eye  was  flashing,  fearful  in  its  purpose  of 
ove  and  power,  as  though  he  were  asserting  his  claim 
to  hfe  itself. 

He  never  stopped-this  was  described  to  me  after- 
wards-till  he  stood  beside  the  pair  of  actors,  the  old 
man  and  the  young,  already  repairing  to  the  dress- 
'ng-room  behind.  And  the  old  man's  face,  so  they 
told  me.  was  a  study  to  behold  as  he  was  swiftly 
brushed  aside,  dispossessed,  the  unreality  swallowed 
"P  of  L,fe  as  Gordon  took  the  tattered  form  into  the 
arms  that  long  emptiness  had  clothed  with  almost 
savage  strength. 

*•  Oh.  my  son  !     Oh.  Harold,  my  son,  my  son  '  " 
was  Gordon's  low  cry  that  all  about  could  hear;  for 
the  stillness  of  the  grave  was  on  every  heart.     "  Come 
come,  we'll  go  to  mother,"  came  a  moment  later  as' 
i^e  turned  and  tried  to  lead  Harold  gently  away 


y^  THE  /trriC   GUEST 

I  do  not  know  all  the  son  said  to  the  fath 
Gordon  told  me  after  how  Harold  clung  t 
though  he  were  hiding  for  his  life,  speaking 
but  burying  his  face  as  though  none  mus 
shame— or  the  holy  gladness ;  and  in  a  n 
two,  though  I  know  not  how  long  itwas,soi 
authority  said  that  the  play  must  go  on,  th; 
dience  would  be  impatient  and  indignant. 

"Then  come,  my  son,"  said  Gordon;  " 
clothes  on,  Harold,  and  we'll  go— your  mol 
mother  knows  it's  you,"  his  face  radiant,  I  ^ 
turned  upon  his  boy. 

But  Harold  wouldn't— the  play  mus:  be 

he  said,  and  he  must  take  his  part.     Harold 

resolute,  his  father  said,  his  words  full  of  c 

tion,  when  he  avowed  his  purpose  to  st 

work  was  done.    And  really— it  was  one  o 

amusing  sides  of  my  husband's  character 

—when  Gordon  told  me  this  his  face  U 

with  pride.     "The  lad  wouldn't  forsake 

he  said,  as  proudly  as  if  Harold  had  bee: 

missionary  instead  of  a  play-actor ;  it  was 

to  hear  Gordon,  with  the  views  I  knew  1: 

about    the    theatre,  belauding    Harold  1 

wouldn't  leave  his  post  even  at  such  a  tim 

So  his  father  came  back  and  resumed  h 

side  me.     No  wor-^  escaped  his  lips,  b 


a- 


'X^^'.V.f 


THE  HOUR    OF  HEALING        393 
spoke  the  language  of  Everlasting  Life  as  they  were 
fixed  a  moment  on  my  own.     Uncle  gazed  at  him— 
I  suppose  everybody  did-but  he  knew  that  ques- 
tion or  answer  had  no  place  in  an  hour  such  as  this 
And  the  curtain  rolled  up  again_ah,  me!  how  dif- 
ferent now-and  my  hand  was  once  more  in  Gor- 
don's;  but  now  I  could  feel  the  strain  of  gratitude 
aiid  gladness   that  his  happy  heart  was  chanting. 
Our  eyes  were  fixed  on   Harold  only;  I  heard  his 
voice  amid  that  closing  revelrj^-and  my  wild  heart 
leaped  m  my  bosom  as  though  my  son  were  born  to 
me  anevv. 


We  were  home  at  last  In  the  hotel.  I  mean,  in 
Gordon's  room  and  mine— for  uncle  had  gone  to 
rest.  Only  a  little  tiny  bit  of  a  room  it  was-but  it 
was  home;  for  we  had  Harold-and  Dorothy  was 
asleep  in  an  adjoining  room. 

Gordon  went  out  for  a  little.  He  said  he  wanted 
to  enquire  about  trains— but  I  knew  why  he  left  us 
alone  together.  Gordon  was  an  eloquent  minister- 
but  I  was  Harold's  mother.  ,  there  are  queens 

and  priestesses,  as  well  as  kings  and  priests,  unto 
God.    Which  Gordon  knew. 

It  was  while  he  and  I  were  still  alone  with  each 
other  that  Harold  broke  out  with  bitter  plaint  of 
penitence,  so  full  of  gusty  sorrow,  of  self-reproach. 


39^1 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


V  I  > 


of  broken  vows  and  purposes.  I  shall  not,  mi 
write  it  down.  It  was  all  holy  to  me,  and  sh, 
be- ;  for  the  breath  of  sprin^j  was  in  it,  and 
then  that  God  had  brought  him  back,  all  bs 
broken  heart  sick  oi  the  sin  and  shame  that 
hated  and  deplored.  My  son  was  alive  a 
knew  in  that  moment ;  lost  had  he  been  indee 
God  had  kept  aglow  his  memory  of  the  Hon 
that  never  had  gone  out. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  this  to  anybody  else,"  the  f 
voice  said  as  his  face  was  hidden  on  my  b 
«'  not  even   to   father — what   I'm  going  to  1 

now.     But  I'm  going  to " 

"  Tell  it  to  God,  my  son,"  and  I  kissed  the 
ing  lips. 

Gordon  came  back  just  after  that.  I  tl 
must  have  known  our  souls  had  come  close 
other  and  to  Him.     For  a  great  peace  was 

face and    yet    it   shone    with  a    kind   of 

happiness  that  I  thought  wa.-  truly  spiritu 
simply  didn't  seem  to  think  there  was  a 
that  needed  reproach,  or  explanation,  or  forg 
He  talked  with  Harold  about  his  old  friends 
games,  his  old  pursuits ;  and  about  what  w 
do,  and  see,  before  we  returned  to  Hertford 
pretty  soon  he  said  it  was  time  we  were  al 
and,  in  the  most  natural  way,  that  we  woi 


•  i 


>ecl  the  quiver- 


THE  HOUR    OF  HEALING        395 

worship  before  we  separated.     So  he  took  tI,o  Bible 
But.  before  he  opened  h.  he  started  one  of  the  old 
famihar  psalms,  just  as  we  had  always  done  at  home 
"We'll  sing  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-sixth  " 
he  said,  with  something  of  grandeur  in  his  manner 
that  reminded  me  of  Harold's  grandfather;  for  that 
IS  one  of  the  sublimities  of  the  Scottish  race.     I  have 
heard  both  Gordon  and  his  father  declare  that  some- 
thing could  be  found  in  the  psalms  to  suit  every  oc- 
casion, no  matter  what.     But  I  wondered  what  could 
express  the  emotion  of  such  a  time  as  this.    "  We'H 
s>ng  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-sixth,"  Gordon  re- 
peated,  already  pitching  the  key  to  the  "  grave  sweet 
melody  '•   of  a  tune  that  bore  the  happy  name  of 
St.  Andrew's.     And  we  sat  in  silence  as  he  sang 

"  When  Zion's  bondage  God  turned  back 
As  men  that  dreamed  were  ne  • 
Then  filled  with  laughter  was  our'  mouth 
Our  tongue  with  mela    ." 

Harold's  head  was  bowed;  my  eyes  were  fixed  on 
t^ordon.  For  my  heart  was  busy  with  the  thrilling 
memory  of  that  long  distant  night  when  I  first  had 
Ijeard  the  power  of  that  earnest  voice,  first  learned 
the  grandeur  of  these  mighty  songs.  Gordon 
seemed  unconscious  of  our  presence.  His  eyes 
^ere  lifted  up,  beyond  the  things  of  time:  he 
was  hke  one  lost  among  the  hilLs,  transported  by 


396  THE  A77IC  GUEST 

their     grandeur.      Something    more    than 
ecstasy  throbbed  through  his  voice  when 
the  verse : 

"  As  streams  of  water  in  the  south 
Our  bondage,  Lord,  recall ; 
Who  sow  in  tears,  a  reaping  time 
Of  joy  enjoy  they  shall." 

Then  he  rt  "d  some  selection  from  the  S( 
It  was  very  short;  and  he  read  it  slowly, 
never  lifted  from  the  page.  When  he  pr 
talked  with  God — all  I  can  remember  was 
he  said  "  Our  Father." 


It  was  long  after  midnight  when  he  and  1 
our  rest — we  sat  talking  for  hours  and  he 
Harold  was  asleep  in  the  room  next  to  ours, 
fore  we  put  out  our  light  Gordon  suddenly  t 
me,  and  his  face  was  as  youthful  as  when  I  sa 

"  Helen,  let  us  go  and  tuck  Harold  in — so 
be  cold." 

I  smiled,  for  I  couldn't  but  remember  Hare 
but  I  threw  a  wrapper  about  me  and  Gordi 
went  in  together.  We  tucked  him  in,  one  ( 
side;  I  don't  know  whether  Harold  knew 
but  he  played  the  part  of  childhood  once 
when  we  kissed  him  good-night  he  turned 
in  his  sleep  and  smiled. 


XXX 
EDEN  IN   THE  /tTtiC 

I  SOMETIMES  wonder  what  the  other  guests 
thought  of  our  behaviour  at  breakfast  the  next 
morning.    U  ncle  was  simply  ridiculously  happy, 
even  boistero.-sly  so.     And  he  ^/ouldn't  hear  to  any 
dissent  from  the  project  that  possessed  his  mind. 
We  must  all  go  South  with  him,  and  that  was  the 
end  o;  it.     He  and  Aunt  Agnes  had  never  had  a 
difference  in  all  their  married  life,  he  said,  but  the 
trouble  would  begin  right  there  if   he  went  back 
without  us!     And  he  settled  the  whole  thing  an 
hour  later  by  suddenly  appearing,  after  a  very  mys- 
terious absence,  and  flaunting  in  our  faces  the  tickets 
for  the   entire  party.      They  were  taken   via  the 
Old  Dominion  Line ;  and  the  little  sea  voyage  would 
be  the  very  thing  for  all  of  us.—and  Harold  had  assured 
him  that  a  release  from  his  company  could  be  easily 
arranged.     So  Gordon  left  it  to  me  again— ard  I  left 
it  to  Harold,  and  Harold  elected  to  see  his  mother's 
old  Virginia  home.     Dorothy  lent  loud  approval. 

Thirty-six   hours  later  we  were  in  the  dear  old 
Southern  town,  driving  from  the  old  familiar  station 

397 


J98 


THE   ATTIC   GUEST 


V    I 


along  the  old  familiar  street.     My  heart  was 
b  ardcn  was  partly  sadness,  altogether  song. 

"  Stop  here,"  Gordon  suddenly  said  to  tl 
as  we  turned  on  to  a  street  neither  of  us  w 
to  forget.     "  Come,  Helen,"  as  he  held  out 
to  help  me  from  m^-  seat. 

I  knew.     It  was  under  that  very  elm,  just 
the  church,  I  had  first  come  face  lo  face  wit 
even  if  I  did  have  a  pitcher  in  my  hand,  g 
the  cream. 

'*  Drive  on,"  said  Gordon;  "  well  join  yc 
and  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

We  followed,  slowly ;  someti'nes  looking 
the  deep  shade  of  the  bending  elms,  someti 
each  other's  faces ;  with  much  of  speech  we  \ 
of  silence,  sweeter  silence,  more. 

Soon  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  us  in  ful 
uncle's  house.  There  it  stood,  ivy-clad,  t 
stately,  iiowning  structure,  looking  forth  i 
calmly  as  though  we  had  gone  away  but  y 
There  was  the  magnolia  tree  beside  the 
stone,  not  now  in  bloom  but  still  spreading 
umbrageous  beauty.  And  there,  just  beyo 
ing  still,  its  copious  stream  unfailing,  rolled 
ning  river  ;  rolling  on,  as  time  rolls  on,  unhas 
resting,  ^earing  all  its  burdens  in  silence  tc 
The    years    had  passed  and  fled,  yet  the 


join  you  later, " 


EDEN   IN    THE   ATTIC  399 

wavelets  could  be  seen— oh,  parable  of  Time  f    And 
the  bridge   was   there ;    repaired  and  strengthened 
some,  yet  the  same  bridge  it  was  on  which  I  had 
seen  the  love-lorn  pair  seek  the  shelter  of  the  dark 
And  I  felt  a  shudder  thri..  my  frame  as  I  descried 
the  very  pier  that  had  been  the  scene  of  the  tragedy 
but  for  which  Gordon  had  never  mad.  ...s  noble  pro- 
test ;  but  for  which,  our  long  years  of  exile  had  never 
been.    I  looked  away. 

Aunt  Agnes  was  at  the  door  as  we  climbed  the 
steps  of  stone.    She  kJ  me  in  and  closed  it  tight  be- 
fore she  told  me.  with  love's  speech  of  silentness,  all 
the  joy  of  welcome  that  was  in  her  heart.     She  was 
thinking,  and  I  was  thinking,  of  the  absent  one- 
oh!  why  these  ever-absent  ones?_whose  face  was 
now  withdrawn  forever.     I  roamed  the  hall ;  I  wan- 
dered about  the  broad  porch  ;  I  drank  my  fill  of  the 
I'brary,  dearest  of  them  all-my  mothers  face  met 
me  at  every  turn.     And  I  wondered,  with  passionate 
hope  that  it  might  be  so,  if  she  knew  that  her  child 
had  returned  to  the  scene  of  girlhood  days  once 
more;  if  she  knew  how  laden  with  the  spoils  of  time 
I  came,  rich  in  the  harvest  that  love  and  sorrow  give 
anointed  by  the  holy  hand  of  suffering,  by  life's  fleet- 
'ng  vanities  beguiled  no  more. 

"  Sho"    Harold  through  the  house.  Helen,"  uncle 
•^^      u: .   /hen  supper  was  over  and  the  first  tumult 


■ 


400 


THE  ATTIC  GUEST 


had  subsided ;  "  let  him  see  the  old  place  from 
to  attic.  It  will  be  his  some  day.  I  reckon 
his  tone  and  glance  left  no  doi.bf  as  to  wl 
meant. 

I  did  as  he  directed,  partly.  All  but  the 
Not  yet  must  any  enter  there  but  me.  I  sc 
stored  Harold  to  the  merry  circle— and  tht 
steps  turned,  almost  reverently,  towards  that 
rr.om.  It  did  no^  take  me  long,  what  I  had 
for  Icve's  jk  is  soon  accomplished.  And  I  k 
would  not  be  in  vain — I  knew  that  Gordon 
not  fail  me.  Yet  my  heart  beat  fast  as  I  tur 
the  attic  door  and  looked  back  once  more  be 

went  down-stairs.     Everything  was  perfect ai 

gentle  breeze  was  ruffling  the  curtain  of  th( 
window. 

They  were  all  in  bed  when  Gordon  and  I  b 
ourselves  to  the  room  set  apart  for  us.  It  wj 
above  the  parlour,  the  largest  and  most  imp 
apartment  in  all  that  roomy  house.  A  largt 
hogany  bed  was  planted,  immovable,  in  the  ce 
hand-carving,  richly  wrought,  made  the  ceilinj 
mantel  things  of  beauty ;  oil-paintings  hung  upc 
lofty  wall ;  soft  draperies  bedecked  the  windows 
We  closed  the  door  and  Gordon  locked  aboi 
splfjndid  room.  I  began  unpacking  a  valise  thi 
upon  the  floor. 


EDEN  IN   THE  ATTIC  401 

Suddenly  he  came  over  and  stood  beside  me.    One 
hand  touched  my  shoulder  and  I  looked  up. 

'•  We're  not  going  to  sleep  here."  he  said  quietly. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  askc J.    "  Where  ?  "  although  I  knew, 
and  my  bounding  heart  bespoke  my  joy. 

"  You  know— come,"  with  which  he  took  up  the 
valise  and  led  the  way  aloft. 

The  roof  was  low  and  I  think  Gordon  really  bowed 
his  head  a  little  as  we  passed  within  that  attic  door. 
TI.e  same  discarded  articles,  finding  their  limbo  here, 
stood  about  the  walls.  But  the  fire  was  crackling  on 
the  hearth  ;  the  coverings  on  the  bed  were  snowy 
white  ;  the  silver  toilet-set  on  the  old  bureau  was  the 
same  I  had  laid  there  so  stealthily  years  before.  And 
on  the  .ttle  table  in  the  corner  was  a  bowl  of  the 
choicest  roses,  their  fragrance  floating  through  the 
room. 

I  looked  at  Gordon.  Perhaps  I  was  just  a  little 
disappointed  that  he  did  not  speak.  His  eyes  rested 
on  the  fire,  turned  to  the  roses,  lingering  long. 

"  That's  the  same  fire,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  and  I  laughed ;  <'  how  can  you  say 
that  ?  " 

"  The  very  same,"  he  persisted  ; "  it  never  has  gone 
out.  And  the  roses  too ;  they're  the  very  same— 
they've  never  faded." 

"  I  thought  you'd  want  to  come  here,"  I  said, 


T3S1 


402  THE   ATTIC   GUEST 

stupidly  enough ;  but  I  knew  not  what  « 
"  You  know,  you  said— long  ago,  when 
came  here — you  said  you  always  loved  an  ; 
"  Yes,"  he  said  simply,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
I  do." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  though  I  knew  it  w 
foolish  question. 

He  stood  a  long  time  silent  in  the  fireligh 
never  moving  from  my  face.  "  Because  it 
heaven,"  he  answered  low ;  "  come,  Hel( 
his  arms  were  open  wide. 


'^^^M 


THE  END 


EST 

what  else  to  say, 
when  you  first 
'ed  an  attic." 
s:ed  on  me;  "yes, 

V  it  was  such  a 


firelight,  his  eyes 
:ause  it's  nearest 
e,  Helen"— and 


